P5 
 
 [11% CK 
 
CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 3 1924 074 56 
 
 188 
 
 All books are subject to recall after two weeks 
 Olin/Kroch Library 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924074561188 
 
In compliance with current 
 
 copyright law, Cornell University 
 
 Library produced this 
 
 replacement volume on paper 
 
 that meets the ANSI Standard 
 
 Z39.48-1984 to replace the 
 
 irreparably deteriorated original. 
 
 1995 
 
QEOnOE BELL & SONS. 
 
 WEBSTER'S COMPLETE DICTIONAEY 
 
 OF Ta^r»EN€ii?sB:a>A]srGXTAGE, and general book 
 
 OF LITERARY^EEFERENCE. With 3000 Ulustrations. Tho- 
 roughly revised and improved by Chahncey A. Gooduich, D.B., 
 .IX.D., and Noah Pokteb, D.D., of -Yale College. 
 
 In One Volume, Quarto, strongly. bound in clotb, 1831 pages, price ££i;iU. 6(I.;!hJilf-calF, 
 £2 ; call" or half-russia, £2 2s. ; russia, £2 Ids. ■ ■ 
 
 Besides the matter compnst*d in the Webster's Guinka DicrJONAaY, this 
 volume. contains the following Appendices, which will sh-jw xhat- no pains .have 
 ■Veen^pared-to make it a complete Literary Rererence-book : — 
 
 APronomicrag Yocabularyof'^Scrip- 
 ture Proper Karnes. By VV.A. Whbelek. 
 M.A. Includiug a Liat of the Variations 
 that occur in the Uouay version of the 
 .Bible. 
 
 A Brief :History of the 'English Lan- 
 guage. By . Professor James. Hadlei. 
 This Work shows the Philological Rtla- 
 tiona of the English Language, and traces 
 the prt^resa.and influence of the causes 
 ■which have brought it to its present con- 
 dition. 
 
 Principles of -ftonnnciation. By 
 Professor Goodeich and W. 'A.: Wheelee, 
 ilJL. Including a. Synopsis of Words 
 differently .j)ronouiiced by different au- 
 tboritles. ■- ' - - '■'■'' 
 
 A Short Treatise on Orthography. 
 By lAETHXrE'-W.-.WKiGHT. , Including a 
 Complete List of Words, that are spelt in 
 two -or more ways. ■ 
 
 in Explanatory arid 'Trononncing 
 
 -Vocabulary 'Of the 'Names of Noted Fic- 
 titious Per8ons-an<iillaces,!&t. .ByW.A. 
 Wheelee. M.A. This Work includes not 
 only persons and pUw.-es noted in Fiction, 
 whether ; narrative, Jpottical, -or dramatic, 
 but ilytholpgical and Mythical names, 
 -names referring to the Angelolpgy and De- 
 monology. wf various traces; and those 
 .found !^ in the-aromance -writers,; -tPaeu- 
 "douyms.'Nick-names of. eminent persons 
 and -parties, -Ac.,' Ac. '-'Iri fact, it~'is 'best ■ 
 desoibed as*explaining every name which 
 is jiot .strictly AisforicoZ, _Ar reference is 
 -^verto-the originatorflf -each name, and 
 ' where! the iorigjn jis iDntaKynen a .-quo tation 
 is, given,, to,' some ^el^^kii,o,wn writer, in 
 which" the word occurs. '", ^_ _ 
 " 7%is'vdliiabtc'Wor7c may also be^TiaeL 
 sepa.raidyi'yost'^Svo., 5s.^ '^■'■■>'-. ' 
 
 A^ronotmcingTocabulary -of Greek 
 
 and Laian Proper Names.-i^;By 'Professor 
 Tela-Chee. of Yale CoU^e. 
 
 An Etymological Vocabnlary of Ttto- 
 dera G^cgrapUirjC Names. By the Rev. 
 C. H- WH^.£LKft. .Containing:— J.. A List 
 of Prefix(-s,TcnniiiatiouB, and Formative 
 Syllables in various Langnages, with their 
 
 ,. meaning ani derivation; n, A brief, List 
 of Geographical Name-s ^not explained by 
 the foregoing List),'wlin' their derivation 
 
 ,aad 6iguilication,-aJl doubtful andpbscuie 
 derivations bemg excluded. 
 
 rfrotcoTmcingi^ Vot;abnlaries;6f 3ff odom 
 r (jreograpklcal and~,}Hi(£raphLi:alp^ames. 
 
 Byjj. tH011AS,.M-P"-[ C_ ' .,: f^rr. 
 
 A.JPrononncing Vocabulary «of Com- 
 mon. EngUbh Christian Names, with their 
 aerivations.'signitjcation.'-and diminutives 
 . (or.nick-Aames^^and;;tiiUT,-^uiyalents,'ui 
 several othCT Jiinguages., .. r., „ , , t r p 1 
 
 AIDifctionaiyitff^ttotatibnfl. sS^ected 
 .and rt^anslated^lo' Wilijaii fi. Webstse, 
 "Containing all Words, Fhraees,' Proverbs, 
 -«nd XTolloqhial ExpresBTons '.^rom ithe 
 Gree^-jjatii^' andfiM6deiii,^For«ign 1^'- 
 guages,- which are fie^juently.ynet within 
 ^ liteiatnre'aTid-conversatioh.. ^ ^'-'^'''" ' - 
 
 A'Xiat' "of ' Abbrevial!ions,'TCbntrac- 
 
 -'tions, and -Axbitrarj' Signs used in Writing 
 ■■ •".ju:id.>erinting. ,:>:-y.''^' ■'"'-' '_:>.'■ "!''-■' 
 
 ^-A'Ckssifi^a Selection 'of Pictprial 
 
 ''HluStratioo's'<70"pag«s). ' With referencee 
 to thet^t.;.iJ;-:i. ■-;-';-Xi ^'i'-'l-'C'T'. .'- :,.; 
 
 "TheV^eapest IMctlonaTyrev^,TrabIIsbed,asUl3c6afessedly;OTeflf.th^\best.'tThe intro- 
 ^dnction. of small woodcut illostrationfl of lechnical^udsacieatific^rms^ds^eatly.tojhe 
 
 ■Sitilltyof the Dfctionary "-^CAurtAmon. 
 
 "■Xyj':i7:n THAKOX:^! 
 
 LQXTON^: .GEORGE BELL:-4c ;S0N3, YORK .STREET, -COV^ENT. G^aDEIf, 
 
STANDARD WORKS PURLISHED Bl 
 
 WEBSTER'S DICTIONARY. 
 
 From the Qtjaetkelt Eeyebw, Oct. 1873. 
 
 " Seventy years passed before Johnson was followed by Webster, an 
 American writer, who faced the task of the English Dictionary with a 
 full appreciation of its requirements, leading to better practicalresTilts." 
 
 " His laborious comparison of twenty languages, though never pub- 
 lished, bore fruit in his own mind, and his training placed him both in 
 knowledge and judgment far in advance of Johnson as a philologist. 
 Webster's ' American Dictionary of the English Language ' was pub- 
 lished in 1828, and of course appeared at once in England, where 
 successive re-editing has as yet kept it in the highest place as a practical 
 Dictionary." 
 
 " The acceptance of an American Dictionary in England has itself 
 had immense effect in keeping up the community of speech, to break 
 which would be a grievous harm, not to English-speaking nations 
 alone, but to mankind. The result of this has been that the common 
 Dictionary must suit both sides of the Atlantic." .... 
 
 " The good average business-like character of Webster's Dictionary, 
 both in style and matter, made it as distinctly suited as Johnson's was 
 distinctly imsuited to be expanded and re-edited by other hands. 
 Professor Goodrich's edition of 1847 is not much more than enlarged 
 and amended, but other revisions since have so much novelty of plan 
 as to b«> described as distinct works." .... 
 
 " The American revised Webster's Dictionary of 1864, published in 
 America and England, is of an altogether higher order than these last 
 [The London Imperial and Student's]. It bears on its title-page the 
 names of Drs. Goodrich and Porter, but inasmuch as its especial im- 
 provement is in the etymological department, the care of which was 
 committed to Dr. Mattn, of Berlin, we prefer to describe it in short as 
 ■file Webster-Malm Dictionary. Many other literary men, among them 
 Professors Whitney and Dana, aided in the task of compilation and 
 revision. On consideration it seems that the editors and contributors 
 have gone far toward improving Webster to the utmost that he wUl 
 bear improvement. The vocdbtdary has hecome almost complete, as 
 regards usual words, tphUe the definitions keep throughout to Tfebster's 
 simple careful style, and the derivations are assigned with the aid of 
 good modem authorities." 
 
 . " On the whole, the Webster-Mahn Dictionary as it stands, is most 
 respectable, and CEETAIKIT THE BEST PEACTICAI ENGLISH 
 DICTIONattT EXTAHT." 
 
 LONDON: GDORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET COVENT GARDEN. 
 i 
 
GEORGE SELL & SONS. 
 
 SPECIAL DICTIONARIES AND WORKS 
 OF REFERE NCE. 
 
 Dr. Richardson's Philological Dictionary of the 
 
 ENGLISH LANGUAGE. CJombinmg Explanation with Etymology, 
 and copiously illustrated by Quotations from the Best Authorities. 
 New Edition, with a Supplement containing additional Words and 
 further Illustrations. In 2 vols. 4to. £4 14«. 6d. Half-bound iu 
 Eussia, £5 15s. 6d. Eussia, £6 12s. 
 
 The Words, with those of the same family, are traced to their 
 origin. The Explanations are deduced from the primitive meaning 
 through the various usages. The Quotations are arranged chrono- 
 logically, from the earliest period to the present time. 
 The Supplement separately. 4to. 12s. 
 
 An 8vo. edition, without the Quotations, 15s. Half-russia, 20«. 
 Eussia, 24s. 
 Synonyms and Antonyms of the English Language. 
 Collected and Contrasted. By the late Yen. C. J. Smith, M.A. 
 Post 8vo. 5«. 
 
 Synonyms Discriminated. A Catalogue of Synonymous 
 Words in the English Language, with their various Shades of Mean- 
 ing, &e. Hlustrated by Quotatioas from Standard Writers. By the 
 late Yen. O. J. Smith, M.A. Demy 8vo. 16s. 
 
 A New Biographical Dictionary. By Thompson Cooper, 
 F.S.A., Editor of " Men of the Time," and Joint Editor of " Athense 
 Cantabrigienses." 1 vol. 8vo. 12s. 
 
 This volume is not a mere repetition of the contents of previous works, 
 but embodies the results of many years' laborious research iu rare publica- 
 tions and unpublished documents. Any note of omission which may be 
 sent to the Publishers will be duly considered. 
 
 " It is an important oiiginal contribution to the literatnre of its class by a painstaking 
 
 scholar It seems in every way admirable, and fully to justify the clmms on its 
 
 behalf put forth by its editor." — British Quarterly Reoiew. 
 
 " The mass of Information which it contains, especially as rt^rds a number of authors 
 more or less obscure, is simply astonishing." Spectator. 
 
 *' Comprises in 1210 pages, printed very closely in doable columns, an enormous amount 
 of Information." — Sxaminer. 
 
 " Mr. Cooper takes credit to himself, and is, we think. Justified in doing so, for the great 
 care bestowed upon the work to insure accuracy as to facts and dates; and he is right 
 perhaps in saying that bis dictionary is the most comprehensive work of Its kind In the 
 Knglish language." — PaU ilaU Gazette. 
 
 A Biographical and Critical Dictionary of Painters 
 and Engia,vers. With a list of Ciphers, Monograms, and Marks. 
 By Michael Betan. Enlarged Edition, with numerous additions, by 
 Geoeqe Stauley. Imperial 8vo. JE2 2s. 
 
 A Supplement of Recent and Living Painters. By 
 HrasT Ottlet. 12s. ' 
 
 The Cottage Gardener's Dictionary. With a Supple- 
 ment, containing all the new plants and varieties to the year 1869. 
 Edited by Geoege W. Johnsos.^ Post 8vo. Cloth. 6s. Gd. 
 
 LONDON : GEOEGE BELL & SONS, YORK STI EET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 5 
 
STANDARD WORKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 THE ALDINE SERIES, OF THE BRITISH POETS. 
 
 CHEAP EDITION. 
 
 In rifty-two Volumes, Boimd in Olotli, at Eigliteenpence each 
 Volume. 
 
 Akenaide, with. Memoir by the Eev. 
 A. Dtce, and additional Letters. If. 6ii. 
 
 Beattie, with Memoir by the Eev. 
 A. DrcK. Is. 6d. 
 
 Bums, with' Memoir by Sir Harris 
 Nicolas, and additional Copyright Pieces. 
 3 vols. 4£. Gd. 
 
 Butler, with Memoir by the Eev. J. 
 Mttfoed. 3 vols. 35. 
 
 Chaucer, edited by K. Morris, with 
 Memoir by Sir Habris Nicolas. 6 vols. 
 9c. 
 
 ChurthiU, Tooke's Edition, revised, 
 with 3Iemolr, by Jaues Haithat. 2 .vols. 
 3s. 
 
 Collins, edited, with Memoir, by W; 
 Mot Thouas. 12. 6d. 
 
 Cowper, including his Translations. 
 Edited, with Memoir, and Additional 
 Copyright Pieces, by Johk. Bsuce, F.S.A. 
 3 vols. 4s. 6d. 
 
 Dryden, with Memoir by the Eev. 
 E. HooPEE, F.S_A. Carefully revised, 
 S vols. 7s. 6d. 
 
 Falconer, with Memoir by the Eev. 
 
 J. MiTFOaD. Is. 6d. 
 
 Goldsmith, with Memoir by the Eev. 
 J. MlTFOBD. Revised. Is. 6<2. . 
 
 Gray, with Notes and Memoir by the- 
 Rev. JoifTT-MlTFOH». Is. €d. 
 
 Kirke White, with Memoir by Sir H. 
 
 NicOLAs,aDd additional JNoteSi CarefuUy 
 revised. Is. 6d. 
 
 Milton, with Memoir by "the Eev. J. 
 
 illTFOED. 3 vols. 4s. Gd. 
 
 Pamell, with Memoir by the Eev, 
 J. MrrFOED. Is. 6d., 
 
 Pope, with Memoir by the Eev. A, 
 DrCK. 3 vols. 4s. 6(i. 
 
 •Prior, with Memoir by the BJev; J. 
 
 MlTFOKD. 2 vols. 3S. 
 
 Shakespeare, with Memoir by the 
 Kev. A. Dtcb. is. &d. 
 
 Spenser, edited, with Memoir, by 
 J. Payne Colliee. q vols. Is. Gd, 
 
 Surrey, edited, with Memoir, by 
 James Ysowell. Is. 6d.' 
 
 Swift, with Memoir by the Eev. J. 
 
 MlTEOHlX 3 vols. 4s. 6d.'- 
 
 Thomson, with Memoir by Sir- Hi 
 Nicolas. Annotated by Peter CosimrG- 
 ham, F.S-A.., and ■ additional Poems, care- 
 fnlly revised. 2 vols. 3s. 
 
 Wyatt, edited, with Memoir, by 
 Jahbs Teowell. Is. Gd. 
 
 Young, with Memoir by the Eev. J. 
 
 MITFOKD, and additional Poema.. 2 vols. 
 
 . Complete sets may be obtfuned, bonnd In half-morocco. £9 9s. 
 
 N.B. — Copies of the Kne Paper: Edition^ with Portraits, may/still be bad,.pilc€ .Cs. pei 
 v'4lnme.(except Collins, 3s. 6<L). 
 
 LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS,, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 6 
 
6E0RGB BELL &■ SONS. 
 
 THE ALDINE EDITION' OF THE BRITISH POETS. 
 
 SVPPLEMEXTABT SERIES. 
 
 The fifty-two volumes which have hitherto formed the well-known 
 Aldine Series, embody the works of nearly all the more popular EngUah 
 poetical writers, whether lyric, epic, or satiric, up to the end of the 
 eighteenth century. But since that time the wonderful fertility of English 
 literature has produced many writers equal, and in some eases far superior, 
 to the majority of their predecessors ; and the widely augmented roll of 
 acknowledged English poets now contains many names not represented 
 in the series of; " Aldine Poets." 
 
 With a view of providing for this want, and of making a series which 
 has long hold a high place in public estimation a more adequate lepresen- 
 tation of the whole body of English poetry, the Publishers have deter- 
 mined to issue a second series, which will contain some of the older poets,- 
 and the ■works, of recent writers, so far as may be. practicable by arrange- 
 ment v?ith the representatives of the poets whose works are still copyright. 
 
 One volume, or more, at a time will be issued at short intervals ; they 
 will be uniform in binding and stylo with the last fine-paper edition of the 
 Aldine Poets,- in fcap. 8vo. size, printed at -the Chiswick Press. Price 
 5«. per- volume. 
 
 Each voliune will be edited with notes where necessary for elucidation of 
 the test ; . a - memoir will be prefixed, and a portrait, where an authentic 
 one is accessible. 
 
 The following are already published: — 
 
 The Poems, of-; William- Blaeb. With Memoir by W. M. Eossetti, 
 and portrait by Jeens. 
 
 Thei Poems or Samuel Kosebs. With Memoir by^ Edward Bell, and 
 portrait by Jeens. 
 
 The Poems of Thomas Chattebton. 2 vols. Edited byj the Eev. 
 W. Skeat, with Memoir by Edward 'Bell.' 
 
 The Poems of Sib Walteb Ealeigh, Sir HnOH Cottonj ^ and- Selec- 
 tions from other Courtly Poets. With Introduction by the. Eev.; Dr. 
 TTflnTin.1i, and portrait of Sir W. Ealeigh. 
 
 The Poems op Thomas Campbell. With Memoir by W.' Allingham, 
 and portrait by Jeens.-. 
 
 The Poems op Geoege HEHBEKr. (Complete Edition.) With Memoir 
 by_theJRev. A..B, Grosart, and. portrait. 
 
 The 'Foems-op'J'ohS' Eeatb. With Memoir by Lord EHoughton," and 
 portrait-by;-Jeens.- 
 
 LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, TORE STREET, CO VENT GARDEN.. 
 
 7 
 
STANDARD WORKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 In Ten Volumes, price 2s. 6d. each ; in half -morocco, £2 10«. 
 the set. 
 
 CHEAP ALDINE EDITION OF 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S DRAMATIC WORKS. 
 
 Edited by S. W. SINGER 
 
 Uniform with t!ie Cheap Edition of the Aldine Poets. 
 
 The formation of numerous Shakespeare Reading Societies has created 
 a demand for a cheap portable edition, with legible type, that shall pro- 
 vide a sound text with such notes as may help to elucidate the meaning 
 and assist in the better understanding of the author. The Publishers 
 therefore determined to reprint Mr. Singer's well-known Edition, published 
 in 10 vols., small 8to., for some time out of print, and issue it in a cheap 
 forEi, uniform with the well-known Aldine Edition of British Poets. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Vol. L The Life of Shakespeare. The Tempest. The Two Gentlemen 
 of Verona. The Merry Wives of Windsor. Measure for 
 Measure. 
 
 VoL II. Comedy of Errors. Much Ado about Nothing. Love's Labour 
 Lost Midsummer Night's Dream. Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Vol. in. As You Like It. Taming of the Shrew. All's Well that 
 
 Ends Well. Twelfth Night, or What You Will. 
 VoL rv. Winter's Tale. Pericles. King John. King Kiohard n. 
 VoL V. King Henry IV., Parts 1. and U. King Henry V. 
 VoL VL King Henry VL, Parts I. IL and IIL King Bichard HI. 
 VoL Vn. King Henry VHL Troilus and Cressida. Coriolanus. 
 
 VoL VnX Titus Audronicus. Borneo and Juliet. Timon of Athens. 
 
 Julius CsBsar. 
 VoL IX. Macbeth. Hamlet. King Lear. 
 VoL X. Othello. Antony and Cleopatra. Cymbeline. 
 
 Uniform with the above, price 2«. 6d ; in half-^morocco, 5s. 
 
 CRITICAL ESSAYS ON THE PLAYS OF SHAKESPEABE, 
 
 By William Watkiss Lloyd; 
 
 Giving a succinct account of the origin and source of each play, where 
 
 ascertainable and careful criticisms on the subject-matter of each. 
 
 A few copies of this Work have 'been printed to range with the fine-paper Bdition'ql' the 
 
 Aldine Foets, The price for the Eleven Volumes (not sold separathy) is £2 15s. 
 
 LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, TORE STREET, COTENT GARDEN. 
 
 8 
 
GEORGE BELL & SONS. 
 
 POCKET VOLUMES. 
 
 A Serhes of Select Works of Favonrite Authors, adapted for general reading, moderate In 
 price, compact and elegant in form, and executed in a style fitting them to be perma- 
 nently preserved. Imperial 32mo., cloth, gilt top. 
 
 Sacou's £Esaya, 2s. 6cf. 
 Eoms's Poems. 3s. 
 
 Songs. 3s. 
 
 Coleridge's Poems. 3s. 
 
 C. Sibdin's Sea Songs and Sallads. 
 And others. 35. 
 
 HidsMpman, The. Autobiogi-aphical 
 Sketches of his own early Career, by Cap- 
 tain BasTT. H«TT., E.N, F.E.S. 3s. 6d. 
 
 Lieutenant and Commander. By 
 Captain Basil Haix. RJf., F.K.S. 3s. 6(2. 
 George Herbert's Poems. 2s. 6d. 
 Eemains. 2s. 
 
 "Works. 3s. ed. 
 
 The Sketch Book. By Washingtoji 
 
 lEVIKG. 3s. 6(4. 
 
 Tales of a Traveller. By Washing- 
 ton InVING. 35. 6<i. 
 
 Charles Lamb's Tales from Shak- 
 
 speare. 3s. 
 Longfellow's Evangeline and Voices, 
 
 Sea-side, and Poems on Slavery. 3s. 
 
 Milton's Paradise Lost. 3s. 
 
 Eegained, & other Poems, os. 
 
 Eobia Hood Ballads. 3s. 
 Southey's Life of Nelson. 3s. 
 "Walton's Complete Angler. Por- 
 traits and lUustratums. 35. 
 
 Lives of Sonne, 'Wotton, 
 
 Hooker, &c. 3s. ed. 
 ■White's Natural History of Sel- 
 bome. 35. 6d. 
 
 Shakspeare's Plays & Poems. Keighti.ey's Edition. 13 Vols, in doth case, 21s. 
 
 ELZEVIR SERIES. 
 
 Small fcap. 8vo. 
 
 These Volmnes are issued under the general title of " Elzevik Series," to distinguish 
 them from other collections. This general title has been adopted to indicate the spirit in which 
 they are prepared ; that is to say, with the greatest possible accuracy as regards text, and 
 the highest degree of beauty that can be attained in the worknxauship. 
 
 They are printoi at the Chiswick Press, on fine paper, with wide margins, and issued in 
 A neat cloth binding. 
 
 Longfellow's Evangeline, Voices, 
 
 Sea-side and Fire-side. 4s. 6d. Wiifi 
 
 Fortran. 
 Hiawatha, -and The Golden 
 
 Legend, is. 6d. 
 Wayside Inn, Miles Standish, 
 
 Spanish Students 4s. 6d. 
 
 Bums'a Poetical "Works. 4s. 6d. 
 
 With Portrait. 
 
 ■ Songs and Ballads. 
 
 4s. 6d. 
 
 Tkese Editions contain all tft£ copyright 
 pieces jnd>lished in th£ Mdine Edition. 
 
 Cowper's Poetical "Works. 2 vols., 
 
 each 4s. 6d. With Portrait. 
 Coleridge's Poems. 4s. &d. With 
 Portrait. 
 
 Irving's Sketch Book. 
 Portrait. 
 
 5s. With 
 
 ■ Tales of a Traveller. Ss. 
 
 Milton's Paradise Lost, 4s, 6d With 
 
 Portrait. 
 Eegained, 4s. 6iZ. 
 
 Shakspeare's Plays and Poems, 
 
 Carefully edited by Thomas Keighti,ey. 
 In seven volumes. 6s. each. 
 
 Southey's Life of Nelson. 4s, Gd. 
 
 WUh Portrait of Nelson. 
 
 "Walton's Angler. 4s. Bcf. With a 
 Erontispieci. 
 
 Lives of Bonne, Hooker, 
 
 Herbert, &o. is. Witk Portrait. 
 
 LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YOEK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
STANDARD WOnKSFVBLISHBD BY 
 
 HISTORY AND T RAVELS. 
 
 Rorae. and the Campagna, A- Historical and Topo- 
 graphical Description of the Site, Buildings, and Nelghlwarhood of ancient Kome. By 
 tlie Kev. Robert Burn, late Fellow and Tutor -of Trinity College,- Cambridge.' With 
 eighty engravinffs by JEw^T^, and numerous Maps and Plans. Demy 4t«. jf3 3s. 
 An additional Plan and an Appendix, bringing this Work down to Igte.-thas- been 
 
 added. 
 
 Aneient. Athens ; its. History, Topography, and Re- 
 
 MAINS. By Thomas Hekbt Dter, LL.l)., Author of " The History, of the Eingsot 
 jRome." Super-roy^ 8vo. Illustrated, cloth. £1 6s. 
 
 The History of the Kings of Rome. By Dr.T: K 
 
 Dyer, Author of the "History of the City of Rome;" "Pompeii: Its History, 
 Antiquities," Sec., with a Prefatory Dissertation oa the Sotircea and Evidence of Early 
 Koman History. 8vo. I6s. 
 
 Modern Europe, from the Fall of Constantinople, in 
 
 1453. By Thomas Hesbt Dtee, LL.D. Second Edition, Revised and Continned. 
 In 5 vols.' £,1 12s. 6d. . 
 
 The Decline, of the- Koman Republic. By George Long, 
 
 M.A., Editor of " Cffisar's Commentaries," "Cicero's Orations," &c. 8vo. 
 VoL I. From the Destruction of Carthage to the End of the Jugurthine War. 14s. 
 Vol. IL To the Death of Sertorins. 14s. 
 
 VoL m. Including the third Mithrldatic War. the Catiline Conspiracy, and the Con- 
 sulship of C. Julius Gesar. 14s. 
 VoL IV- History of Oesar^s Gallic Campaigns and of <»ntemporaneotis events .14s. 
 Vol. V. From the Invasion of Italy by Julius Caisar to his Death. 14s. 
 
 A History of England during the Early and Middle 
 
 AGES. By C. H. Peaesos, M:A., Fellow^of Oriel College, Oxford, and late Lecturer 
 In History at Trinity College, Cambridge. Second Edifion, revised and enlarged. 8vo. 
 VoL I. to the Death of Coeur de Lion. 16s. VoL II. to the Death of Edward L 14s. 
 
 Historical Maps of England, By C..H. Eearson, MA. 
 
 Folio. Second Edition, revised. 3ls. 6(Z. - 
 An Atlas containiug -Five Maps-of England at different periods during the Early and 
 Middle / 
 
 The Footsteps of our Lord and His Apostles in 
 
 PALESTINE, SYRIA, GREECE, AND ITALY. By W. H. BARTLiTrr. Seventh 
 Edition, with numerous Engravings. In one 4to. volume.- Handsomely iboundiiin 
 ■walnut, 18s. Cloth gilt, 10s. ed.- 
 
 Forty Days in- the Desert, on. the Track- of the 
 
 ISRAELITES ; or, a Journey from Cairo to Mount Sinai and Petra. By W. H. Ba£X- 
 LETT. 4to. With 25 Steel Et^avings. Handsome walnut binding,; 18s. . Cloth gilt, 
 10s. 6d, 
 
 The Nile Boat ; or, , Glimpses in the.- Land of-- Egypt^ 
 
 By W. H. Baetlett. New Edition, with 33 Ste-el Engravings. 4to. W^nnt,^18s. 
 Cloth gUt, 10s.-6d. . „ 
 
 The Desert- of the Exodus. Journeys on Foot in the 
 
 Wilderness of the Forty Years* Wanderings, tirrdertafeen in connection with" the 
 Ordnance Survey of Sinai and tlw-Palestiue Exploration Fand.n By E. H. Palmeh^M-A:, 
 Lord Almoner's Professor of Arabic and Fellow of St. John's Collie, Cambridge, 
 [ Member of the Asiatic Society, and of the Societe de Paris. With Maps, and numerous - 
 niustrationa from Photographs and Drawings taken on the spot by the Sin^Survey 
 Expedition and C, F, Tyewhitt Deasjb. 2 vols. 8vo. 28s. 
 
 LOM)ON-: GEORGE BELL & SONS, TOEK STREET, COVE^TT "GARD"EN. 
 10 
 
GEOUGE BELL & SONS. 
 
 STANDARD WORKS. 
 
 Corpus Poetanim Latinorum. Edited by E. "Walker. 
 
 One thick voL 8vo. Cloth, las. 
 Containing: — Catullus, Lucretius, Virgillos, Tlbullos, Propertiua, Ovidins, Horatius, 
 Phaedrus, Lucanns, Persius, Juvcnalis, . Martialis, Sulplcia, Statius, Silius Italicos, "Valeriua 
 Flaccus, Calpumlus Siculus, Ausonius, and Claudlanus. 
 
 Cruden's Concordance to the Old and New Testament^- 
 
 or an Alphabetical and Classified Index to the Holy Bible, specially adapted forStmday 
 School Teachers, containing nearly 54,000 references. Thoroaghly revised and. con- 
 densed by G. H. Hannai;;, Fcap. 2s. 
 
 Perowne (Canon). The Book of. Psalms, A New 
 
 Translation, with Introductions and K'otes, Critical and Explanatory. By the -Rev. 
 J. J. Stewabt Perowne, B.D., Cunon Pifisidentiary of Llandaff, and Fellow of Trinity 
 College, Cambridge. 8vo. Vol. L, Fourth Edition, 18s.; Vol. IL, Third.Edition,a6s. 
 
 Adams (Dr. E.). The Elements of the English Lan- 
 
 GUAGE, By Eenest Adams. Ph.D. Fifteenth Edition. Post 8vo, 4s. 6<t 
 
 Whewell (Dr.). Elements of Morality, including Polity, 
 
 By W. WHEWE3tL, D.D., formerly -Master of Trinity College, Cambridge.,. Fourth. 
 Edition, In 1 voL 8vo. 15s. 
 
 Gilbart (J, W.). The Principles^ and. Practice- of 
 
 BANKING. By the late J. W. Gilbaet. New Edition, revised (1871). 8vo. 16s. 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES^BY THE LATE SIR ARTHUR HELPF, W:C.W 
 The Life of Hemanda Cortes^ and thie Cbnquest or 
 
 MEXICO. Dedicated to Thomas Carlyle. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 15s, 
 
 The Life of Christopher Columbus, the Discoverer of 
 
 AMERICA. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 The Life of Pizarro, With Some- AccoTuit of ' lu&^ A«so^ 
 
 dates In the Conquest' of Peru.- Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s, ; ■ 
 
 The Life: of Las Casas, the^ AposUe. of the^ LadieSi. 
 
 Second Edition, Crown 8to. 6s. - 
 
 The Life and Epistles of St. Paul, By Thomas Lewin 
 
 Esq., M-A, F-S.A., Trtolty College^ Oxford, Barrister-at-Law, Author^ of' "Fasti- 
 Sam," " Si^e of Jerasalem," *' Csesar'a Invasion/' " Treatise on Trusts,^.' &ic; Thir'd 
 Edition, revised- "With upwards of 350 lUostrations finely engraved on Wood, Maps, 
 Plans, &C. In 2 vols., demy 4to. £2 2s. 
 
 "This is one of those works which demand from critics and- from: the .-public, before- 
 attempting to estimate its merits in detail, an nnquallfied tribute of admiration. The first 
 glance tells us that the boo^ is one on which the. l^ore of a busy lifetime and the whole 
 resources of an enthusiastic author have been lavished without stint ..... This work is a 
 kind of British Museum for this period and subject in small compass. It is a series of 
 galleries of statues, gems, coins, documents, letters, books, and relics, through, which the*, 
 reader may wander at leisure, and which he may animate with his own musings and-reflec- 
 tions. It must be remembered through'ont that this .delightful and. Instructive collection is 
 the result of the devotion of a lifetime, and deserves as much honour and recognition as 
 many a museum or picture-gallery which has preserved its donor's name for generations." 
 — Times. 
 
 LONDON : GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STKEET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 11 
 
STANDARD WOBKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 ILLUSTRATED OR POPULAR EDITIONS OF 
 STANDARD WORKS. 
 
 Dante's Divine Comedy. Translated ty tlie Eev. Henrt 
 
 Feakcis Caet. With all the Author's Copyright Emendations. Post 8vo. Zs. 6(i. 
 
 Shakespeare. Shakespeare's Plays and Poems. With 
 
 Notes and Life by Chaeles Knigut, and 40 engravings on wood by Habvet. Royal 
 8to. Cloth. 10s. M. 
 
 Fielding. Works of Henry Fielding, complete. With 
 
 Memoir of the Author by Thomas Eoscoe, and 20 Plates by Geoege Cbuikshank. 
 Medium 8vo. 14s. 
 
 Fielding. The Novels separately. With Memoir by 
 
 Thomas Fujscoe. and Plates by Geoege Chuikshank. Medium 8vo. Is. Gd. 
 
 Swift. Works of Jonathan Swift, D.D. Containing 
 
 interesting and valuable passages not hitherto published. With Memoir of the Author 
 by Thohas Roscoe. 2 vols. Medium 8vd. 2is. 
 
 Smollett. Miscellaneous Works of Tobias Smollett. 
 
 Complete in 1 vol. With Memoir of the Author by Thomas Koscoe. 21 Plates by 
 Geoege Crdieishank. Medium 8vo. 14s. 
 
 Lamb. The Works of Charles Lamb. With a Memoir 
 
 by Sir Thomas Noon Taefoued. Imp. 8vo. 10s. 6<l. 
 
 Goldsmith's Poems, ninstrated. 16mo. 2s. 6d. 
 Wordsworth's White Doe of Rylstone ; or, the Fate of 
 
 THE NORTONS. Illustrated. 16mo. 3s. 6iJ. 
 
 Longfellow's Poetical Works. With nearly 250 niustra- 
 
 tions by Bdsket Fostee, TEiTKrEL, Godtvet, Thomas, &c. In 1 voL 21s. 
 
 Longfellow's Evangeline, niustrated. 16mo. 3». 6d. 
 
 Longfellow's Wayside Inn. Illustrated. 16mo. 3s. Qd. 
 
 Washington Irving's Sketch-Book. (The Artist's Edi- 
 tion.) lUustratfid with a Portrait of the Author on Steel, and 200 Esiluisite Wood- 
 Engravings from the Pencils of the most celebrated American Artists. Crown 4to. 
 21S. 
 
 Adelaide Anne Procter's Legends and Ljrrics. The 
 
 Illustrated Edition. With Additional Poems, and an Introduction by Chaeles 
 DicKEHS. a Portrait by Jeeks, and 20 Illustrations by Eminent Artists, Fcap. 4to. 
 Ornamental cloth. 21s, 
 
 Mrs. Gatty's Parables from Nature. A Handsomely 
 
 Illustrated Edition ; with Notes on the Natural History, and numerous Tull-page 
 lUustrations by the most e min ent Artists of the present day, Fcap. 4to. 21s. Also 
 
 2 volumes, 10s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Book of Gems. Selections from the British 
 
 POETS, niustrated with upwards of 150 Steel Engravings. Edited by S. C, Haix. 
 
 3 vols. Handsomely bound in walnut. 21 s. each, 
 
 FiBsr Seeies— Chaucke to Detdes. 
 
 Second Seeies — Swift to Buens. 
 
 Thied Seeies — ^Woedswoets to Tknktson. 
 
 LONDON : GEORGE BELL & SONS, TORE STREET, OOVENT GARDEN. 
 
 12 
 
GEORGE BELL & SONS. 
 
 BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 CAPTAIN MARRTATS BOOKS FOR BOTS. 
 Poor Jack. With Sixteen Illustrations after Designs by 
 
 Clabksok Stakfiexd, R.A. Twenty-second Edition. Post 8vo., 35. &Z. Gilt, 4«. 6d. 
 
 The Mission ; or, Scenes in Africa. Witt lUnstrations 
 
 by John Gilbeet. Post 8vo., 35. €d. Gilt, 4s. 6d. 
 
 The Settlers in Canada. With Illustrations by Gilbert 
 
 and Dalziel. Poet 8w)., 35. 6(i. Gilt, 45. 6d. 
 
 The Privateers Man. Adventures by Sea and Land 
 
 IN crVIL AND SAVAGE LIFE, ONE HDNDEED YEAP.S AGO. Dlustrated 
 with Eight steel Engravings. Post 8vo., 35. Si. GUt, 45. id. 
 
 Masterman Ready ; or, the Wreck of the Pacific. 
 
 Embellished with Ninety-three Engravings on Wood. Post 8vo., 3J. 6i Giltj 4 j. 6ii. 
 
 The Pirate and Three Cutters. Illustrated with Eight 
 
 steel Engravings from Drawings by Clabksoh Stahpield, K.A. With a Memoir 
 of the Anthor. Post Svo., 35. 6d. Gilt, 45. 6d. 
 
 A Boy's Locker. A Smaller Edition of the above Tales, 
 
 in 12 volumes, enclosed in a compact cloth box. 215. 
 
 Hans Christian Andersen's Tales for Children. With 
 
 Forty-eight FnU-page Blnstrations by Wehnert, and Fifty-seven Small Engravings 
 on Wood by W. Thoslas. A new Edition. Veiy handsomely boimd. 65. 
 
 Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales and Sketches. 
 
 Translated by C. C. Peachet, H. Wabd, A. Plesnbe, &c. With 104 lUnstrationa by 
 Otto Sfeckteb and others. 65. 
 
 This volume, contains several tales that are in no other Edition published in this 
 countiy, and with the atx)ve volmne it forms the most complete English Edition. 
 
 Mrs. Alfred Gatty's Presentation Box for Young 
 
 PEOPLE. Containing ** Parables from Nature," " Aunt Judy's Tales," and other 
 Popular Books, 9 volumes in all, beautifully printed, neatly bound, and enclosed In 
 a cloth box. 315. 6<Z. Any single volume at 35. 64I . _ ; 
 
 Anecdotes of Dogs. By Edwaed Jesse. With Elustra- 
 
 tioDS. Post Svo. Cloth. 65. With Thirty-four Steel Engravings after Coopeb, 
 Lamdseee, &c. 75. 6<i. 
 
 The Natural History of Selbome. By Gilbekt White. 
 
 Edited by Jesse. Dlustrated with Forty Engravings. Post 8vo. BJ. ; or with the 
 Plates Coloured, 75. ed. '!. ^ .- .. . 
 
 A Poetiy Book for Schools. Illustrated -with Thirty- 
 seven highly-finished Engravings by C. W. Cope, E.A, Heuibuet, Palubs, Sxiu., 
 Thomas, and H. Wkis. Crown 8to. 15. ,, _ :';"'' r'' ., ' ."- 
 
 Select Parables from Nature. By Mrs. Gattt. -For 
 
 the Use of Schools. Fcap. 15. . , .^^ - -, .,- ' .- 
 
 Besides being reprinted In America, selections from Mrs. Gatty's Parables have 
 been translated and pnblished in the German, French, -Italian, Russian, Danish, and 
 Swedish languages. ^. .,, .,■ ,^ 
 
 LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, COVENT. GARDEN. 
 — J3 
 
STANDARD WORKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 SOWIRBY'S ENGLISH BOTANY: 
 
 Containing a Description and Life-size coloured Drawing of every 
 British Plant. Edited and brought up to the Present Standard of 
 Scientific Knowledge by T. Boswbll (formerly Syme), LL.D. F.L.S., 
 &c. With Popular Descriptions of the Uses, History, and Traditions 
 of each Plant, by Mrs. Laxkbsteb, Author of " Wild Flowers Worth 
 Notice," "Tie British Ferns," &c. The Figures by J. E. Soweket, 
 JiMBS 'SowEEBT, F.L.S., J. Dr. 0. Soweebt, F.L.S., and J. W. 
 Saltee, A.L.S. In Eleven' Voliuues, super-roval 8vo. 
 
 "Under ih» editorship ofT. Boewell Syme, f1L.S., assisted by Mrs. Lmkester, 'SoweAy's 
 English liotany,' when finished, will be exhanstive of the subject, and worthy of the 
 : branch of-, science it illnstrates, .... In taming over the charmingly executed hand- 
 colonred. plates of British plants ^which encumber these volumes with riches, the reader 
 cannot help being struck with the beauty of many of the hmnblest flowering weeds-we tread 
 on with careless step. We cannot dweU upon many of the individuals grouped in the 
 ffl>lendld bouquet of flowera presented in these pages, and it -will be sufficient to state that 
 -the work, is pledged to contain a figure of .every wild.flower . indigenous to these isles." — 
 Tima. 
 
 ^ '^ Will ibeihe most complete IFlora of Great Tfritaln ever brought out. This great work 
 will .find a place wherever hotanical^scienc* is cultivated,* and the study of our native 
 plants, with all their fascinating associations, held near." — AthenaeuTn. 
 
 " A clear, bold, distinctive type enables the reader to take In at a glance the arrangement 
 and divisions of every page. And Mrs. Lankesterias added to the technical description by 
 the editor an extremely interesting popular .sk-etch,. which follows in smaller type. The 
 English, French, and German popiUar names ate given, and, wherever that delicate and 
 difficult step is at all practicable, their derivation also. Medical properines, superstitions, 
 and fancies, and jK)etic.tribnteS4ndllluaions,i'oUow. in short there Is Jiothing more left to 
 -be- desired." — Gwjrdwm. 
 
 - '■"Without' question, this Is the standard work on Botany, and ' Indispensableto every 
 botanist. .. '. . 'The-plates are'most accurate 'and beautiful, and the entlre^work cannot be 
 too strongly xecommended-tcall-^ffhojire. interested ln..botaDy." — JJZustrated Naos. 
 
 Sold eeparately, prices asfoTXews .•— 
 
 Bound cloth. Half-morocco. 'Moroooo elegant- 
 
 je «.. a £, t. d. £ e. d, 
 
 - T0I.L: (Seven Taits) „ .. T18 "2 ^2 ^ '8 6 
 
 II. .aitto ^. . .. 1,18 -2 .2 .^8 6 
 
 in. (Eight Parts) .. ., ^2 '3 ^0 2 7 '0 2 13-6 
 
 :TV.-;(Srine Parts) .. -., 'iS ^8 ^-02 :0 .218 16 
 
 Y. (Eight Parte) ..■.,230 '^70 2 13 6 
 
 .-, VI. (Seven Parts) .. .. .1J8 2 .2 "2 8 "6 
 
 •Vn. -ditto ., ... 1 18 '2 -2 2 S 6 
 
 Vin. (Ten Parts) .... 2 13 2 17 3 3 6 
 
 IX. '(Seven .Parts) . ..- .. 1 18 2 2-0 2 .8 6 
 
 ■X. >ditto 1,18 "2 2 2 8 6 
 
 XI. (Six Parte) .. .. 113-0 1 17 2 3-6 
 
 Or,^ the Meveu*Volumes, :22Z. 8s. in- cloth ; 24M2«. inhalf-morocoo; arid 
 .... 28t 3». 6(J. whole morocco. 
 
 A Sappkmentan/ Volume,ixmtaining ferns and other crypiogami,injpreparation 
 by Professor BoswELL (formerly Syme). 
 
 .LONDON: [GEOEGE.BELL.& SONS, .YORK STREET, COVENT: G-ARDEN. 
 11 
 
GEORGE BELL & SONS. 
 
 LIBRARY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 '* Each volxime is elegantly printed in royal 8vo,, and illustrated with a very large 
 
 number of well-executed engravings, printed in colours They form a complete 
 
 library sf reference on the several subjects to which they are devoted, and nothing 
 more complete in their way has lately appeared." — 7%^ BookselUr. 
 
 REE'S BIRDS OF EUROPE AND THEIR EGGS, not ob- 
 served in the British Isles. With 252 beautifully coloured Plates. Five vols. $1. SJ. 
 
 COUCH'S HISTORY OF THE FISHES OF THE BRITISH 
 
 ISLANDS. With 252 carefully coloured Plates. Four vols. 4/. 4r. 
 
 GATTY'S (MRS. ALFRED) BRITISH SEAWEEDS. Nume- 
 
 rous coloured Illustrations. Two vols. 2/. loy. 
 
 HIBBERD'S (SHIRLEY) NEW AND RARE BEAUTIFUL- 
 LEAVED PLANTS. With 64 coloured Full-page Illustrations. Executed 
 expressly for this work. One voL i/. 5J. 
 
 LOWE'S NATU^RAL HISTORY .OF BRITISH AND EXOTIC 
 
 FERNS. With 479 finely coloured Plates. Eight vols. il. 6s. 
 
 LOWE'S OUR NATIVE FERNS. Illustrated with 79 coloured 
 Plates and 900 Wood Engravings. Two-vols. 3/. ar. 
 
 LOWE'S NATURAL HISTORY OF NEW AND RARE FERNS. 
 
 Containing Species and Varieties -not included in " Fems, -British and Exotic." 
 
 73 colouri^ Elates and Woodcuts. . One vol. i/. .u. 
 
 LOWE'S NATURAL HISTORY OF BRITISH GRASSES. With 
 
 74 finely coloured Plates. One voL xl. is. 
 
 LOWE'S BEAUTIFUL-LEAVED PLANTS : being a description 
 of the most beautiful-leaved Plants in cultivation in this country. With 60 
 coloured Illustrations. One vol. i/. is. 
 
 MORRIS' HISTORY OF BRITISH BIRDS. With 360 finely 
 
 coloured Engravings. Six vols. 6i. 6s. 
 
 MORRIS' NESTS AND EGGS OF BRITISH BIRDS. With 
 223 beautifully coloured Engravings. Three vols. 3/. 3J. 
 
 MORRIS' BRITISH BUTTERFLIES. With 71 beautifully co- 
 loured Plates. One voL il. is. 
 
 MORRIS' BRITISH MOTHS. With coloured lUustrations of 
 nearly 2000 specimens. Four vols. 6/. 6s. 
 
 TRIPP'S BRITISH MOSSES. With 39 coloured Plates, con- 
 taining a figure of each species. Two vols. ^Z. 10s. 
 
 WOOSTER'S ALPINE PLANTS. First Series. With 54 coloured 
 Plates. 2S*. 
 
 WOOSTER'S ALPINE PLANTS. Second Series. With S4 coloured 
 
 Plates, ass. 
 LONDONf-GEOKGE-BELL * SONS,TOEKSTREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
STANDARD WORKS 
 
 PUBLISHED B¥ 
 
 GEORGE BELL & SONS. 
 
 *«* For List of BoHx's LiBEAniES ,see the end of the Volume. 
 
BOHN'S STANDARD LIBEAEY. 
 
 POETEY OF AMEEICA. 
 
 1776—1876. 
 

 x<^^. 
 
 
 
 , 1 . 
 
POETEY OF AMEEICA 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM ONE HUNDRED AMERICAif POETS 
 FROM 1776 TO 1876. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTORY REVIEW OF COLONIAL 
 POETRY, 
 
 AND SOME SPECIMENS OF NEGRO MELODY. 
 
 By W. J. LINTON. 
 
 LONDON: GEOEGE BELL (ffi^Stl^S, 'riEK STEEET. 
 
 COVENT* iGkktliW ' 
 
 1878l.l=ii<A.r/ 
 
 M 
 
LONDON 
 
 PKINTED BY -fl'ILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, 
 
 STAMFORD STREET AND CKAEING CROSS, 
 
 
 I (I 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The earliest project for a collection of Specimens of Ameri- 
 can poetry was that of James Eivington, a royalist printer 
 of New Yor'k, who in 1773 sent out a circular to all reputed 
 poets, rec[uesting to be favoured with copies of their pro- 
 ductions. The war for independence prevented the carry- 
 ing out of this design; and no new attempt was made, 
 except a small selection by Matthew Carey from nineteen 
 writers, until 1793, when Eichard Alsop printed at Litch- 
 field, Connecticut; the first and only volume of a proposed 
 series of American Poems, selected and original. In 1794 
 appeared an insignificant selection, entitled the Columbian 
 Muse. Not tm 1829 was there anything worth calling a 
 collection. Then Mr. Samuel KetteU published in three 
 volumes his Specimens of American Poetry, with critical and 
 biographical notices ; which was followed in 1831 by Dr. 
 Gheever's American Common-Place Booh; in 1839 by the 
 Poets of America in two volimies edited by Mr. Keese, and 
 a small selection made by Mr. Bryant; and in 1842 by the 
 Poets and Poetry of America in one large octavo two-columned 
 
VIU PREFACE. 
 
 volume by Dr. Paifus Wilmot Griswold. In 1849 Dr. 
 Griswold's work was by him extended and divided into 
 two volumes, tlie Female Poets being placed by tbemselves ; 
 and additions from time to time were made by him, in 
 several editions, down to the edition of 1855, the last 
 issued loj him. In 1872 Mr. E. H. Stoddard supplemented 
 the work with new names to that date. 
 
 Kettell's and Griswold's are the only collections of any 
 importance among those here enumerated. The Columbian 
 Muse has only 22 names, 15 of which appear again in 
 Kettell; and Keese has but five or six, those valueless, 
 which are not in either Kettell or Griswold. Kettell's 
 three handsome volumes (Boston, S. G. Goodrich & Co :) 
 contain specimens of 189 poets, collected with much evident 
 care and patient research from the " principal libraries of 
 Boston and its neighbourhood. New York, Philadelphia, 
 and Worcester." Griswold speaks of about five hundred 
 volumes of rhythmical compositions, " nearly all of which 
 I read." The last edition of Griswold contains 160 names 
 (64 of these the same as in Kettell), to which Mr, Stoddard 
 adds 23 ; and his volume of Female Poets has 94 more, to 
 which Mr. Stoddard adds 21. 
 
 From these sources, from my own reading of more than 
 four hundred writers, and from the latest editions of the 
 most important poets, and not sparing considerable researc'h 
 elsewhere, aided in several instances by the authors them- 
 selves — to whom. I would here acknowledge my obligation 
 — ^the present volume has been compiled. To Mr. Stod- 
 dard, whose knoTvledge of American poetic literature is 
 not, I believe, surpassed by that of any one, my especial 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 thanks are due for a most friendly revision of my lists of 
 poets and jpoems, for some corrections of dates, and for 
 other valuable information helping toward the perfecting 
 of my work. 
 
 I claim precedence for it as the first fair and compre- 
 hensive sample of American Poetry given to the old 
 country. The American Poems of my friend Mr. W. M. 
 Eossetti may not claim to he this, as he omits Longfellow 
 and all humorous verse, and as, not having had before him 
 the last edition of Griswold (prepared by Mr. Stoddard in 
 '72 but published only in tlie Fall of last year), he was 
 apparently unacquainted with much, of the best poetry of 
 the last twenty years. Or, if on this ground of complete- 
 ness my work may not take the place which his would 
 seem to assume, I may yet make good my venture as not 
 uncalled for, even though but supplementary. Omitting 
 as less worthy, after careful comparison of their works, 26 
 of Mr. Eossetti's poets, I give 61 not given by him ;. while 
 of his 265 poems my choice has taken only 21 ; a difference 
 not altogether to be accounted for by difference of taste or 
 opinion, but, I think, owing partly to the wider field for 
 selection of which I have been fortunate enough to have 
 the range. From Griswold's own collections, containing 
 nearly two thousand poems, I take 67 ; to Mr. Stoddard's 
 supplements I am indebted for about as many more. The 
 rest of my 256 poems, representing 100 poets (not including 
 those quoted in the Review of Colonial Poetry), rewarded 
 a further search among completer works and more recent 
 editions. Half of my book is not to be found in any exist- 
 ing collection of specimens. 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 Of course even now I must have left out some worthy- 
 names and very many excellent works : j'et of all known 
 to me I have been careful to choose the best and the most 
 characteristic ; and in making my choice have endeavoured 
 to be as catholic as possible, to give to no one of my own 
 favourites an undue proportion of space, but as far as 
 possible to provide fair opportunity for the reader's judg- 
 ment of all those writers who have already gained the 
 plausive verdict of popularity, and to add other names 
 only of those whose admission to my pages has been 
 approved by critics not committed to my partialities. 
 Hymns and "religious" poems, and any fragments of 
 poems too long to be given entire, have been purposely 
 excluded as out of place in such a collection as this. With 
 these exceptions, I have been careful to assemble as many 
 varieties as possible of thought and expression — ^humorous 
 as well as serious — anti-English as well as pro-English — 
 Southern as well as Northern; — adding some few subjects, 
 such as the Star-spangled Banner, for the sake of time- 
 honoured associations ; some, as "Whitman's Dresser, because 
 indicative of the character and experience of the writer. 
 And here it may be "well to note that of a himdred poets, 
 chosen with no reference whatever to place of birth or 
 opinions, but one-tenth can be fairly classed as Southern- 
 ers ; a very few belong by birth or residence to the 
 West; the remainder are of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, 
 New York, and the New England States. There was no 
 withstanding this majority : nevertheless I have done my 
 best to make my book truly representative of American 
 feeling as uttered in verse, a fair and full presentment of 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 the quality of Ameiican Song, both emotional and artistic. 
 If I have failed, it has not been ftom want of diligence 
 and conscientious effort, nor through being heedless of the 
 impartiality which should rule a critical collector. 
 
 In some dates and names and other matters of fact in 
 which I differ from Mr. Eossetti, I have only noted the 
 difference after careful inquiry, personal as well as in 
 biographies and obituaries, which justifies me, though 1 
 may be wiong sometimes, in asserting my general correct- 
 ness. I may particularly refer to Poe. Mr. Stoddard is 
 clear that Poe was born in 1809, not in 1811 as usually 
 stated ; and not at Baltimore, but very probably in New 
 York. 
 
 Of biographical notice, beyond place and date of birth, 
 and death, the little that can be given within the limits of 
 a work like this must be so unsatisfactory, vague and often 
 incorrect, that I have deemed it best not even to attempt 
 it. I also refrain from criticism, as I refrain from leading 
 toward a judgment. To print the whole score of Poe's 
 poetical amusements (so considered by himself) would not 
 advance him nearer to those higher heavens where only 
 the Dii Majores can securely sit ; and I prefer giving the 
 challenge of works that can be compared, to offering any 
 argument on the claims of Lowell to his throne among the 
 best, the best not only of bis contemporaries in America, 
 but of those in England too. My scheme indeed admits 
 only some shorter poems : but Hercules may be known by 
 his foot-prints. 
 
 This only, and out of no captious spirit, in remon- 
 strauce against what seems to me an unjust leading, 
 
 h 
 
xii PEEFACE. 
 
 suited rather to the partisan tlian the critic. Fur the 
 rest my work may speak for itself. I might easily have 
 enlarged it with further quotations, but my object has 
 been to give a fair and sufficiently various sample, and no 
 more. 
 
 W. J. LINTON. 
 
 New Haven, Conn: U.S.A. 
 1877. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Review OF CoLOSiAL PoETKY xxiii 
 
 Philip Feeneatj. 
 
 The Wild Honeysuckle 1 
 
 The Indian Burying Ground 'I 
 
 Joseph Hopkikson. 
 
 Hail, Columbia 1 ... ... ... ... ... ... 3 
 
 Eoeebt Treat Paine. 
 
 Adams and Liberty ... ... ... ... ... 5 
 
 Feancis Soott Key. 
 
 The Star-spangled Banner ... ... ... ... 7 
 
 Washington Allstos. 
 
 America to Great Britain ... ... ... ... ... S 
 
 James Kikke Paulding. 
 
 The Old Man's Carousal 10 
 
 William Maxwell. 
 
 To a Fair Lady II 
 
 John Pieepont. 
 
 Plymouth Dedication Hymn II 
 
 My Chad ' 12 
 
 Centennial Ode 14 
 
 Samuel Woodworth. 
 
 The Bucket • 15 
 
 KiCHAKD Henet Dana. 
 
 The Little Beach Bird ... ... 16 
 
 The Moss Supplicateth for the Poet 17 
 
XIV CONTEXTS. 
 
 PACE 
 
 Lydia HowArm Hcxtlet Sioovnxi;v. 
 
 Indian Names ... ... -• ... .■ •■. 20 
 
 CnAKLE.s SrnAnrE. 
 
 The Winged Worshippers 21 
 
 Nathaniel Langdon" FnoTHixGiiAjt. 
 
 The Crossed Svrords 22 
 
 Joseph Eodmax Drake. 
 
 The American Flag 2" 
 
 "William CrLLEx Bryaxt. 
 
 To a Water-fowl 2:-> 
 
 Hymn to the North Star 2G 
 
 The Death of the Flowers 27 
 
 The Evening Wind 28 
 
 To the Fringed Gentian 30 
 
 Hymn of the City 31 
 
 The Crowded Street 32 
 
 The Waning Moon 33 
 
 The Third of November, ISGl 34 
 
 Waiting by the Gate ... ... .. ... ... 35 
 
 James Fitz-greene Hai.leck. 
 
 Marco Bozzaris ... ... ... .. ... ... 37 
 
 James Gates Peroival. 
 
 It is Great for Our Country to Die .. ... -10 
 
 The Coral Grove ... .'. 41 
 
 Maria Gowe^t Brooks. 
 
 Song (Day, in melting purple dying) ... .. ... 42 
 
 John Gardxeb Calkins Brainakd. 
 
 The Tree Toad 43 
 
 The Nosegay .. ... ... ... ... 43 
 
 Epithalamlum ... ... ... ... ... ... 4-1 
 
 Stanzas (The dead leaves) 45 
 
 Edttahd Co.^te Plkene:t. 
 
 A Health 40 
 
 Albert Gobtox Greene. 
 
 Old Grimes... 47 
 
 Ealph Waldo Emebson. 
 
 The Poet.. 48 
 
 To the Humble Bee 50 
 
CONTEI^TS. XV 
 
 TACK 
 
 Boston Hymn ... ... ... ... ... 52 
 
 Song of Nature ... ... ... ... ... ... 35 
 
 Brahma 57 
 
 Friendship 5S 
 
 To Eva 58 
 
 Charles Penno Hofmiax. 
 
 The Bob-o'-Linlcum 59 
 
 The Origin of Mint Juleps UO 
 
 To a Lady blushing ... ... ... ... iji 
 
 William Giljiobe Simms. 
 
 The Lost Pleiad (jl 
 
 The Prayer of tlie Lyre ... ... ... ... .. (j^ 
 
 IIenkt Wadstvorth Longfellow. 
 
 The Light of Stars g7 
 
 The Kaiuy Day Qg 
 
 The Quadroon Girl gg 
 
 Paul Eevere's Eide 7q 
 
 The Arrow and the Song 74. 
 
 Serenade 74 
 
 ChUdren 7, 
 
 Catawba "Wine \... ... ... ... ... jq 
 
 The Cumberland V ... ... ... ... _ 73 
 
 Snow-flakes ..\ ... ... ... ... gy 
 
 Egbert Hinckley Messingk{(. 
 
 Give me the Old I 
 
 SO 
 
 John Howard Betant. 
 
 The Indian Summer g2 
 
 JfATHANIEL PaRKER WiLLIS. 
 
 The Aimoyer ... ... ... ... 53 
 
 Two Women ... ... ... ... _ g^ 
 
 Saturday Afternoon ... ... ... gg 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
 Skipper Ireson's Eide gg 
 
 Barclay of Ury gg 
 
 The Mayflowers 93 
 
 Burial of Barbour g.^. 
 
 Song of the Negro Boatmen gg 
 
 Barbara Frietchie 
 Ichabod 
 
 97 
 99 
 
xvi CONTENTS. 
 
 rAf;R 
 
 TeUing the Bees 1"0 
 
 The Kiver Patli 102 
 
 In School-Days lOt 
 
 William D. Gallaghee. 
 
 August ... ... ... ... ... ... ••■ 10.) 
 
 Olivee Wendell Holmes. 
 
 Dorothy Q 107 
 
 The Deacon's Masterpiece 109 
 
 The Two Streams HH 
 
 Midsummer ... ... ... ... ... ... 113 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus ... ... ... ... Ill 
 
 Albekt Pike. 
 
 To Ceres 115 
 
 To Spring 117 
 
 Edgak Allan Poe. 
 
 The Raven 119 
 
 The Bells 121 
 
 Annabel Lee 127 
 
 To Helen 128 
 
 SaEAH M-AKG.4EET FuLLEE (OSSOLl). 
 
 The Temple of Life 129 
 
 Ralph Hott. 
 
 Old 130 
 
 Alfeed Billings Steeet. 
 
 Indian Summer ... ... ... ... ... ... 134 
 
 Spearing 138 
 
 Cheistophee Peabse Ceanch. 
 
 Written at Sorrento 139 
 
 The Hours HO 
 
 Henet Theodoee Tuckeeman. 
 
 To an Elm 141 
 
 Lucy Hodpee. 
 
 Death and Life 143 
 
 Epes Sakgent. 
 
 Summer in the Heart ... ... ... ... ... 145 
 
 O ye Keen Breezes ! 146 
 
CONTENTS. XVI 1 
 
 PACE 
 
 CiiAitLES Gamage Eastman. 
 
 A Snow-Storm in Vermont 147 
 
 The Farmer 149 
 
 Dirge 150 
 
 John Godfkey Saxe. 
 
 The Blind Men and the Elephant 150 
 
 I'm Growing Old 152 
 
 Kiss Me Softly ! 153 
 
 RoBEKT Tbatl Spesce Lowell. 
 
 The Relief of Lncknow 154 
 
 Love disposed of ... ... ... 15G 
 
 Heney David Thoeeau. 
 
 Inspiration ... ... ... ... ... . . 1,57 
 
 Upon the Beach 158 
 
 William Elleey Channing. 
 
 The Plight of the Wild Geese 159 
 
 To my Companions ... ... .. ... ... igi 
 
 Aethue Clevelanb Coxe. 
 
 The Old Abbeys 102 
 
 Thomas Hill. 
 
 The Bobolink 163 
 
 Jajies Kussell Lowell. 
 
 EhcEons ... 155 
 
 The Fountain Igg 
 
 The Falcon X70 
 
 Hunger and C!old... . 171 
 
 Hebe X73 
 
 To the Dandelion ... ... ... .., ... 174 
 
 What Mr. Eobinson thinks I75 
 
 The Courtin' j77 
 
 Yussouf jgQ 
 
 She Came and Went jgj 
 
 The First Snow-fall Ig9 
 
 Maeia White Lowell. 
 
 The Moming-Glory 283 
 
 An Opium-Fantasy ... jgj 
 
xvm 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Thomas William Parsons. 
 On a Bust of Dante 
 
 Saint Peray 
 
 Dirge 
 
 Swallows 
 
 William Koss Wallace. 
 
 The Gods of Old 
 
 El Amin— the Faithful ... 
 
 Williasi Wetmore Story. 
 
 Praxiteles and Phryne . . . 
 The Violet 
 
 AValt Whitman. 
 
 With Antecedents ... 
 Longings for Home 
 Pioneers ! Pioneers ! 
 
 Quicksand Years 
 
 The Dresser 
 
 Spirit whose work is done 
 The City Dead-house 
 The Mystic Trumpeter 
 
 JcLiA Ward Howe. 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Eepublio 
 
 Herman Melville. 
 
 Sheridan at Cedar Creek ... 
 Shiloh ... 
 
 Henry Howard Beownell. 
 The Colour-Bearer 
 The Burial of the Dane ... 
 Qu'il Mourflt ! 
 
 Alice Cast. 
 
 The Little House on the Hill 
 Faded Leaves 
 
 Phoebe Cart. 
 
 Song (Laugh out, Stream !) 
 
 Alas! 
 
 Pickled Beets 
 
 Richard Coe. 
 
 Emblems 
 
 18G 
 18S 
 190 
 191 
 
 191 
 195 
 
 197 
 
 19S 
 
 199 
 201 
 203 
 207 
 207 
 210 
 211 
 212 
 
 21G 
 
 217 
 
 218 
 
 219 
 
 220 
 222 
 
 223 
 224 
 
 225 
 22.1 
 226 
 
 227 
 
CONTENTS. XIX 
 
 CouN-Euus Geoege Fennek. 
 
 Gulf-Weed 228 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Eead. 
 
 The Windy Night 220 
 
 The Deserted Farm 230 
 
 Autumn's Sighing 231 
 
 Geoege H. Bokee. 
 
 The Black Regiment 232 
 
 A Ballad of Sir John Franklin ... ... ... ... 234 
 
 AuGcsTiNE Joseph Hicket Duoanne. 
 
 The Poet and the People 239 
 
 Love's Eyes 240 
 
 Charles Godfeet Leland. 
 
 Breitmann and the Turners ... ... ... ... 240 
 
 BaUad (Eitter Hugo) 242 
 
 Geoege William Ouetis. 
 
 Song (Bushes lean over the Water) 244 
 
 Pearl-Seed 244 
 
 Ebb and Flow 245 
 
 Major and Minor 245 
 
 Adeline D. Teain Whitney. 
 
 Behind the Mask 246 
 
 EicHABD Henby Stoddaed. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln ,.. ... ... ... ... ... 247 
 
 Brahma's Answer ... ... ... ... ... 253 
 
 A Catch 254 
 
 The Dying Lover 255 
 
 Under the Rose 255 
 
 Elizabeth Drew Baestow Stoddaed. 
 
 A Summer Night 256 
 
 Mercedes 256 
 
 On the Campagna ... ... ... ... ... 257 
 
 Bataed Tayloe. 
 
 The Birth of the Prophet 258 
 
 The Wisdom of Ali 260 
 
 The Arab to the Palm 261 
 
 Bedouin Song 263 
 
 Wind and Sea 264 
 
CONTEXTS. 
 
 Julia C. E. Dokr. 
 
 What She Tliouglit 2Gr> 
 
 Outgrown ... ... ... ... ... ■•■ ... 2(JU 
 
 LroY Lakcom. 
 
 A Loyal Woman's No ... ... ... ... ... 2CS 
 
 Hannah binding Shoes 270 
 
 The Curtain of the Dark 272 
 
 Sleep-Song 272 
 
 John Totn-^'sexd TnowniuDGE. 
 
 Evening at the Farm ... ... ... ... ... 273 
 
 Midwiuter 275 
 
 Guy Humfhkey McMastee. 
 
 The Old Continentals 270 
 
 Heney Toirod. 
 
 Charleston 278 
 
 The XJnkuo\yTi Dead 279 
 
 John Estex Cooee. 
 
 May 280 
 
 Paul H. Haynt;. 
 
 The Golden Age ... 281 
 
 The Why of a Blush 282 
 
 Edjiund Clarence Stedman. 
 
 How Old Brown took Harper's Ferry 283 
 
 Pan in Wall Street 289 
 
 Toujours Amonx 291 
 
 The Doorstep 292 
 
 Helen Fiske Jackson ("H. H."). 
 
 Coronation 294 
 
 Spinning ... 295 
 
 Tryst 296 
 
 George Arnold. 
 
 The Jolly Old Pedagogue 297 
 
 The Matron Tear 299 
 
 A Sensible Serenade 300 
 
 John Jaites Piatt. 
 
 Biding to Tote 301 
 
 The Old Man and the Spring Leaves 303 
 
 The First Tryst 305 
 
CONTENTS. XXI 
 
 FACK 
 
 Theodore Tilton. 
 
 No and Yes 303 
 
 Sir Marmaduke's Musings SOU 
 
 Haheiet Pkesoott SroFFOitD. 
 
 Magdalen ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 307 
 
 The Night Sea 308 
 
 A Sigh 309 
 
 Celia Leighton Thaxteg. 
 
 The Minute Guna 300 
 
 Medrake and Osprey 310 
 
 Song (We sail tow'rd evening's loneh' star) ... ... 311 
 
 John Aylmege Doegax. 
 
 The Kiss 312 
 
 A Farewell 312 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldeioh. 
 
 When the Sultan goes to Ispahan ... ... ... 313 
 
 Palabras Carinosas ... ... ... ... ... 314 
 
 Tiger Lilies 315 
 
 William Wintee. 
 
 Lethe 31G 
 
 Love's Question 318 
 
 Love's Queen 319 
 
 The Last Scene 320 
 
 Eue 320 
 
 After AU 321 
 
 AKelic 322 
 
 Byeon Foeoeythe Willson. 
 
 The Old Sergeant 323 
 
 The Last Watch 328 
 
 TheEstray ... 329 
 
 Autunm Song 330 
 
 William Dean Howells. 
 
 Before the Gate 330 
 
 The Poet's Friends 331 
 
 Feancis Beet BLabte. 
 
 The Heathen Chinee 331 
 
 "Jim" 333 
 
 Grizzly 335 
 
XXH CONTENTS. 
 
 AGE 
 
 Joh:;^ Hat. 
 
 Jim Bludso 33G 
 
 Little Breeches .,, ... ... ... ... ... -ir.S 
 
 A "Woman's Love ... ... ... ... ... ... I>39 
 
 CiNCINXAf CS HlNEK " JOAQUIX " MiLLEE. 
 
 Kit Carson's Eide ... ... ... ... ... ... 340 
 
 James R. Randall. 
 
 Maryland ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 315 
 
 Kate Putnam Osgood. 
 
 Driving Home the Cows 347 
 
 By the Apple-tree 349 
 
 Elizabeth Akeks Allex. 
 
 The Sparrow at Sea 350 
 
 Rose Teket Cooke. 
 
 Semele ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 351 
 
 " Che Sara 6ara " ... ... ... ... ... 352 
 
 After the Comanches ... ... ... ... ... 353 
 
 KoHA Perrt. 
 
 In June 354 
 
 Out of the Window 355 
 
 Robert Kelly Weeks. 
 
 Ad Finem 35G 
 
 A Pause 357 
 
 Will Garleton. 
 
 Betsy and I are out 35S 
 
 How Betsy and I made up 360 
 
 F. F. Victor. 
 
 Nevada 364 
 
 Edward Rowland Sill. 
 
 Sleeping 3G5 
 
 A Poet's Apology 366 
 
 Notes 3(j7 
 
 Index OF Authors ... ... ... ... ... 373 
 
 Negro Song 379 
 
EEYIEW OP COLONIAL POETRY. 
 
 The Poetry of the New-England Colonists is scarcely 
 worthy of preservation except for the satisfaction of an 
 historical curiosity. Though most industrious Kettell in- 
 deed tells us that " the early settlers were no less distin- 
 guished for their attachment to letters than for their 
 religious character," yet his own collection contradicts 
 hinx. With the exception of Philip Pieneau, his volumes 
 do not contain the name of a single -writer of poetic merit 
 horn earlier than 1770. Of course there was verse-writing. 
 Even the dullest period of the Georgian era permitted 
 that. But the young Colonial Muse was mostly addicted 
 to religious contemplation, and employed its nascent abili- 
 ties in twisting versions of the Psalms and in the manu- 
 facture of occasional epitaphs and anagrams. At these 
 last every person of education tried his or her hand ; and 
 all seem to have heen about equally successful, differing in 
 quantity, not much in quality. During the war for inde- 
 pendence there was a change of humour, producing a mass 
 of political poesy, sufficiently pungent, mixed with some 
 smart personal, not veiy poetical satire. Trumbull's 
 M'Fingal, a long burlesque poem of patriotic intention, 
 strikes the keynote of such productions ; and Joel Barlow's 
 ponderous Columhiad is the concluding orchestral crash. 
 But even the w^ar produced no Tyrtaeue ; and the change 
 from polemical to political added little to the poetical 
 character of the current " poetry." ' Griswold sums up his 
 
 J 
 
XXIV COLONIAL POETRY. 
 
 account of " our ante-revolutionary period " in these 
 words : — " Very little verse worthy of preservation was 
 produced in America. The Poetry of the Colonies was 
 without originalit3-, energy, feeling, or correctness of dic- 
 tion." Some specimens however, culled from Kettell and 
 from Griswold's Cariosities of American Literature, may be 
 interesting even as curiosities. 
 
 First growth on American soil was the Eev. William 
 Morrell's Description of New England, in Latin Hexame- 
 ters, in 1623, " hardly three years from the aixival of the 
 Pilgrims." This was published in England, with a Trans- 
 lation; and has been reprinted in the collections of the 
 Massachusetts Historical Society. First English verse 
 produced here was probablj' that of Mr. George Sandys, 
 who while Treasurer for the Colony of Virginia, about 
 1625, completed his Translation of Ovid's Metamorplioses, 
 and is thought to bave written all or part of his Paraphrase 
 on the Psalms and Songs selected out of the Old and New 
 Testaments, praised by both Pope and Drydon. First 
 original colonial composition in rhyme is a poem believed 
 to have been written about 1630, the author's name not 
 known. It is headed — 
 
 NEW ENGLAND'S ANNOYANCES. 
 
 New England's annoyances, you that would know them, 
 Pray ponder these verses which briefly do show them. 
 
 The place where we live is a wilderness wood. 
 Where grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good; 
 Our mountains and hills and our valleys below 
 Being commonly cover'd with ice and with snow : 
 And when the north-west wind with violence blows, 
 Then every man pulls his cap over his nose : 
 But, if any'e so hardy and wiU it withstand. 
 He forfeits a finger, a foot, or a hand. 
 
 But, when the spring opens, we then take the hoe, 
 And make the ground ready to plant and to sow. 
 Our com being planted and seed being sown, 
 The worms destroy much before it is grown ; 
 And when it is growing some spoil there is made 
 By birds and by squirrels that pluck up the blade ; 
 And, when it is come to full com in the ear, 
 It is often destroy'd by racoon and by deer. 
 
COLONIAL POETRY. XXT 
 
 And now do our garments begin to grow thin, 
 
 And wool is much wanted to card and to spin. 
 
 If we get a garment to cover without, 
 
 Our other in-garments are clout upon clout. 
 
 Our clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn ; 
 
 They need to be clouted soon after they're worn ; 
 
 But clouting our garments they hinder us nothing, — 
 
 Clouts double are warmer than single whole clothiug. 
 
 If fresh meat be wanting, to fill up our dish 
 
 We have carrots and pumpkins and turnips and fish : 
 
 And, is there a mind for a delicate dish, 
 
 We repair to the clara-banks, and there we catch fish. 
 
 'Stead of pottage and puddings and custards and pies, 
 
 Our pumpkins and parsnips are common supplies : 
 
 We have pumpkins at morning and pumpkins at noon ; 
 
 If it was not for pumpkins we should be undone. 
 
 If barley be wanting to make into malt, ' 
 
 We must be contented and think it no fault ; 
 
 For we can make liquor to sweeten our lips 
 
 Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut-tree chips. 
 
 Now while some are going let others be coming. 
 For while liquor's boiling it must have a scumming ; 
 But I will not blame them, for birds of a feather 
 By seeking their fellows are flocking together. 
 But you whom the Lord intends hither to bring, 
 Forsake not the honey for feat of the sting ; 
 But bring both a quiet and contented mind, 
 And all needful blessings you surely will find. 
 
 We come next to the Bay Psalm Book — " the Psalms in 
 Metre, faithfully translated for the Use, Edification and 
 Comfort of the Saints, in Public and Private, especially in 
 New Englande," printed at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 
 1640. This was the first booh printed in English America. 
 Not the first printing : an Almanack and The Freeman's 
 Oath had gone through the press in the year before. The 
 Bay Psalm Book was the work of Thomas Welde of Box- 
 bury, Eiehard Mather of Dorchester, and John Eliot — 
 " the Apostle of the Indians." " If " — say the translators 
 in their preface — "the verses are not always so smooth 
 and elegant as some may desire and expect, let them con- 
 
XXTl COLONIAL POETRY. 
 
 sider that God's altar needs not our polishings ; for wo 
 have respected rather a_ plain translation than to smooth 
 our verses -with the sweetness of any paraphrase, and so 
 have attended to conscience rather than elegance, and 
 fidelity rather than poetry, in translating Hebrew words 
 into English language, and David's ]ioetry into Englisli 
 metre." A few lines from the first Psalm may he sufficient 
 to prove the correctness of the translators' judgment of 
 their own performance. 
 
 blessed maB, that in th' advice 
 
 of wicked doeth not ■walk : 
 nor stand in sinner's way, nor sit 
 
 in chayre of scornful folk. 
 But in the law of lehovah 
 
 is his longing delight : 
 and in his law doth meditate, 
 
 by day and eke by night. 
 And he shall be like to a tree 
 
 planted by water-rivers : 
 that in his season yields his fruit, 
 
 and his leaf never withers. 
 
 After two editions had been printed, it was deemed 
 necessary to improve the diction, and the revision was 
 undertaken by the Eev. Henry Dunster, President of Har- 
 vard College, and Mr. Richard Lyon, " with a special eye 
 both to the gravity of the phrase of Sacred Writ, and 
 sweetness of the verse." They also added versifications of 
 other portions of Scripture, under the title of Spiriizial 
 Songs of the Old and New Tesiament. This improved ver- 
 ' sion had at the date of Kettell's writing (1829) gone 
 through more than thirty editions in America, besides 
 frequent reprints in England and Scotland. A sample of 
 the improvement may be worth giving, taking again the 
 first Psalm for comparison. 
 
 Corrected T>y Dutister and Lyon. 
 
 O blessed man that walks not in 
 
 th' advice of wicked men 
 Nor standeth in the sinners way 
 
 nor scomers seat sits in. 
 But he upon Jehovah's law 
 
 doth set his whole delight : 
 
COLONIAL POETRY. XXVU 
 
 And in his law doth meditate 
 
 both in the day and night. 
 He shall be like a planted tree 
 
 by water-brooks ; which sliall 
 In his due season yield his fruit, 
 
 whose leaf shall never fall. 
 
 Sucli was tlie character of early New England verse ; 
 but as j'et, with, but our one exception given above, we 
 have nothing original. To Mrs. Anne Bradstreet belongs 
 the honour of the first volume of original poetry published 
 in the new conn try. She was the wife of Simon Brad- 
 street, Grovernor of Massachusetts, at the age of sixteen 
 married to him, and came with him the year at'tei', in 1630, 
 to America, where she died in 1672. One of the poems in 
 her volume bears the date of 1632, aetatis suae 19. Cotton 
 Mather, himself a hard striver toward Parnassus, declares 
 that " her poems divers times printed have afforded a grate- 
 ful entertainment unto the ingenious and a monument for 
 her memory beyond the stateliest marbles ; " and the 
 " learned and excellent " John Norton of Ipswich calls her 
 " the mirror of her age and gloiy of her sex," honouring 
 her, after the fashion of the time, with this punning 
 epitaph : — 
 
 Her breast was a brave pallaoe, a hroad street, 
 Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet. 
 Where Nature such a tenement had tane 
 That other souls to hers dwelt in a lane. 
 
 A few of the opening stanzas of one of her poems entitled 
 Contemplation will show her style, and poetic ability at least 
 Buperior to that of her panegyrists. 
 
 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, 
 
 AVere 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 hew ; 
 
 Wrapt 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, wisdome, glory, light. 
 
 That hath this under world so richly dight : 
 
 More heaven than earth was here no winter and no night. 
 
XXVIU COLONIAL POETET. 
 
 Then on a stately oak I oast mine eye, 
 
 Whose ruffling top tlie clouds seem'd to aspire ; 
 
 How long since thou wast in thine infancy? 
 
 Thy strengtli, aud stature, more thy years admire. 
 
 Hatli hundred winters past since tliou wast bnrn ? 
 
 Or tliousand since thou brak'st thy shell of horn ? 
 
 If BO, all these as nought eternity doth scorn. 
 
 Tlien higher on the glistering sun I gaz'd, 
 
 Whose beams were shaded by the leavio tree ; 
 
 The more I look'd tlie more I grew amaz'd, 
 
 And softly said, what glory's like to thee ? 
 
 Soul of this world, this Universe's eye, 
 
 No wonder some made thee a deity ; 
 
 Had I not better known, (alas) the same had L 
 
 But tbougli Mrs. Beadstreet is indeed the first writer of 
 original poetry in America, the first native American who 
 achieved poetic celebrity was Benjamin Tompson (Thomp- 
 son or Thomson) bom at Braintree, " within the limits of 
 the present town of Qiiincy,"* in Massachusetts, in 1640, 
 described on his tombstnue at Eoxbuiy (Boston) as 
 " learned schoolmaster and physician and ye renowned 
 poet of New England." He wrote, during the war of the 
 Colonists against Philip — the Sachem of the Pequods, in 
 1675 and '76, a mighty epic intituled New England's Crisis, 
 the Prologue of which we give entire, to whet or f o content 
 the appetite of the curious. The epic begins with a lament 
 for the increase of luxury among the people. 
 
 The times wherein old Pompion was a saint, 
 When men fared hardly, yet without complaint, 
 On vilest cates ; the dainty Indian maize 
 Was eat with clamp-shells out of wooden trayes, 
 
 * So Kettell. Griswold says — "bom in the town of Dorchester 
 (now Quincy)." But Kettell is right. Dorchester is now incorporated 
 with Boston. Braintree, on the other side of Quincy, still maintains 
 its independency ; but a portion of it was some years ago annexed to 
 Quincy, — Quincy itself (I am informed) originally made out of a part 
 of Braintree. It was probably in one of those Quincy parts that 
 Tompson was born. Surely it is worth while to be as correct as is 
 possible as to the birthplace of the American Homer. His epitaph, 
 on his tombstone at Eoxbirry, another suburb but lately taken into 
 Boston, is as follows: — ScB spe immortali te herse of Mr. Be>'- 
 JA5IIN Thomson, leakijed schooljiastee and physician, and te 
 
 RENOWNED POET OF, NeW EnGL.^ND. ObCT ApRILIS 13, AnNO DoillNI 
 1714, ET .STATIS SL'.S 74. MoRTUCS SED LUMOETALIS. 
 
COLONIAL POETRY. XXIX 
 
 Under thatcli'd hutts, without the cry of rent, 
 And the best sawce to every disli, content. 
 When flesh was food and hairy skins made coals, 
 And men as well as birds had cliirpiug notes; 
 When Cimaels were accounted noble blood. 
 Among the tribes of common herbage food. 
 Of Ceres' bounty form'd was many a knack, 
 Enough to fill poor Robin's Almanack. 
 These golden times (too fortunate to hold) 
 Were quickly sin'd away for love of gold. 
 'Twas then among the bushes, not the street, 
 If one in place did an inferior meet, 
 " Good morrow, brother ! is there aught you want ? 
 Take freely of me, what I have you ha'n't." 
 
 Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current now. 
 As ever since " Your Servant, Sir ! " and bow. 
 Deep- skirted doublets, puritan ick capes. 
 Which now would render men like upright apes, 
 Were comelier wear, our wiser fathers thought. 
 Than the cast fashions from all Europe brought. 
 'Twas in those dayes an honest grace would hold 
 Till an hot pudding grew at heart a cold. 
 And men had better stomachs at religion, 
 Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon ; 
 When honest sisters met to pray, not prate. 
 About their own and not their neighbour's state. 
 During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud 
 Of the ancient planters' race before the flood. 
 Then times were good, merchants cared not a rush 
 For other fare than lonakin and Musli. 
 Although men far'd and lodged very hard, 
 Yet innocence was better than a guard. 
 'Twas long before spiders and worms had drawn 
 Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawne 
 New England's beautyes, which stil seem'd to mo 
 Illustrious in their own simplicity. 
 'Twas ere the neighbouring Virgin Land had broke 
 The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoak. 
 'Twas ere the Islands sent their presents in. 
 Which but to use was counted next to sin. 
 'Twas ere a barge had made so rich a fraight 
 As chocolate, dust-gold, and bitts of eight. 
 Ere wines from France, Jind Moscovadoe too. 
 Without the which the drink will scarsly doe ; 
 From western isles ere fruits and delicacies 
 Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces. 
 , Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war 
 Was from our towns and hearts removed ftir. 
 
■XXX COLONIAL rOETRY. 
 
 No bngtear comets in the clirystal air 
 
 Did drive our christian phvnters to despair. 
 
 No sooner pagan malice peeped forth 
 
 But valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth, 
 
 AVho by their prayers slew thousands, angel-like ; 
 
 Their weapons are unseen with which they strike. 
 
 Then had the churches rest ; as yet the coales 
 
 AVere covered up in most contentious souls : 
 
 Freeuess in judgment, union in affection, 
 
 De;ir love, sound truth, they were our grand protection. 
 
 Then were the times in which our councells sate, 
 
 These gave prognosticks of our future fate. 
 
 If these be longer liv'd our hopes increase. 
 
 These warrs will usher in a longer peace. 
 
 But if New England's love die in its youth, 
 
 The grave will open uext for blessed truth. 
 
 This theame is out of date, the peacefuU hours 
 
 When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers. 
 
 Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn 
 
 To draw the figure of New England's ume. 
 
 New England's hour of passion is at hand ; 
 
 No power except divine can it withstand. 
 
 Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out. 
 
 But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about. 
 
 Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings. 
 
 To fear and fare upon their fruits of sinnings. 
 
 So that the mirror of the christian world 
 
 Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furl'd. 
 
 Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surprize 
 
 Not dastard spirits only, but the wise. 
 
 Thus have the fairest hopes deceiv'd the eye 
 
 Of the big-swoln expectant standing by : 
 
 Thus the proud ship after a little turn, 
 
 Sinks into Neptune's arms to find its ume : 
 
 Thus hath the heir to many thousands born 
 
 Been in an instant from the mother torn : 
 
 Even thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale. 
 
 And thy supporters through great losses faiL 
 
 This is the Prohgue to thy future woe, 
 
 The Epilojue no mortal yet can know. 
 
 Notable, if only as a poetic vagary, in accord witli tte 
 grim hnmour of the period, is the Day of Doom — a poetical 
 description of the Great and Last Judgment, with a short dis- 
 course about Eternity — hy the Rev. Michael Wigglesworth, 
 B.A. of Harvard (horn 1631, died 1707), a compendious ver- 
 sion, in the manner of Stemhold and Hopkins, of all the 
 Scripture texts relative to the final judgment of man, in 
 
COLONIAL POETRY. XXXI 
 
 224 stanzas of eiglit lines each, wliichwent througli at least 
 seven editions iu America, and was also reprinted in Eng- 
 land. Eooni must be spared to give some notion of its 
 lieculiar merits. The Poem begins — 
 
 Still was the night, eerene and bright, 
 
 "When all men sleeping lay ; 
 Calm was the season, and carnal reason 
 
 Thought so 'twould last for aye. 
 Soul ! take thine ease, let sorrow cease, 
 
 Much good thou hast in store : 
 This was their song, their cups among. 
 
 The evening before. 
 
 During tlie Day of Doom the souls argue with the Judge, 
 who does not alwaj-s get mnch the better of them in the 
 argument. The colloquies are given at some length. 
 Among those to be judged 
 
 to the bar all they drew near 
 
 Who died in infancy, 
 And never had or good or bad 
 
 Effected personally. 
 
 They remonstrate, complaining of hard measure, and are 
 finally told that through Adam 
 
 You sinners are, and such a share 
 
 As sinners may expect 
 Such you shaU have ; for I do save 
 
 None but my own elect. 
 Yet to compare your sin with their 
 
 Who liv'd a longer time, 
 I do confess yours is much less. 
 
 Though every sin's a crime. 
 
 A crime it Is, therefore in blif s 
 
 You may not hope to dwell. 
 But unto you I shall allow 
 
 The easiest room in hell. 
 The glorious King thus answering. 
 
 They cease and plead no longer : 
 Their consciences must needs confess 
 
 His reasons are the stronger. 
 
 Thus all men's pleas the judge with ease 
 
 Doth answer and confute. 
 Until that all, both great and small. 
 
 Are silenced and mute. 
 
XX XU COLONIAL I'OETRY. 
 
 Vain hopes are crop'd, all mouths arc stoji'd. 
 
 Sinners have nought to say. 
 But that 'tis just and efjuai most 
 
 They should he damn'd for aye. 
 
 \Ve may pass the Muse of Wolcott, Governor of Coiiiic-c- 
 tiuut, guilty of fifteen liundred Hues in heroic conplets. — 
 ft Brief Account of the Agency of the Honourable John W{)i- 
 thorp Esquire in the Court of Kivg diaries the Second, Anno 
 Dom : 1662, lohcn he obtained a CItarler for tlte Colony of Con- 
 necticut: published at New London, Conn :, in 1725. In 
 1761 ^■<re make acquaintance with Nathaniel Evans, of 
 Philadelphia, "cut off" (saj's Kettell)"at an age when 
 few have sufficiently developed their powers to execute anj- 
 work of great and permanent excellence. Yet f i om what 
 he has left behiud him, his poetical talent may he estimated 
 highly. His taste was excellent and his imagination vivid. 
 The Ode on the Prospect of Peace is decidedly the most 
 finished and elegant production which the liteiatiire of our 
 country could exhibit at that date." Beginning 
 
 AVhen elemeDtal conflicts rage, 
 
 And heaven is wrapp'd in tempests dire, 
 
 When storms with storms dread combats wage, 
 And thunders roll ethereal fire ; — 
 
 Ketuming Zephyr's odorous race, 
 And i-adiant Sol's aU-cheering face, 
 
 The trembling mortals most desire. 
 
 "When Enrus, charged with livid clouds, 
 
 Scours o'er old ocean's wild domain, 
 And Boreas rends the vessel's shrouds. 
 
 And o'er her swells the raging main ; 
 If lighter breezes should succeed, 
 
 And Iris sweet,, of varied hue. 
 Lift o'er the main her beamy head, 
 
 What raptures fill the marine crew I 
 Thus when Bellona (ruthless maid !) 
 
 Her empire through the world has spread. 
 And death his flag has proud display'd 
 
 O'er legions that in battle bled ; — ■ 
 If peace, bedeck'd with olive robe, 
 . (Resplendent nymph, sweet guest of heaven) 
 Transfuse her balm around the globe, 
 
 A theme of joy to man is given. 
 
COLONIAL POETRY. XXXIU 
 
 Then wake, muse ! thy sweetest lays — 
 
 Returning peace demands thy praise ; 
 And while the notes in varied cader.ce sound, 
 Eye thou the Thebau swan that soars o'er heav'uly ground. 
 
 The remainder is in tlie same sti-ain. Our quotation not 
 unfairly represents the tasteful productions of the Evans 
 period, when turgid declamation was supposed to be elo- 
 quence, and even critics mistook turuidily for grandeur. 
 
 " Mrs. Bleecker's poetry " (our Kettell again) " is not of 
 that high order which would sustain itselt under any very 
 bold attempt; but the events of her life (she died in 178a, 
 at the age of 31) " confer a degree of interest upon the few 
 productions which she has left behind her. A i'emale culti- 
 vating the elegant arts of refined society at the ultimfi Thule 
 of civilized life, in regions of savage wildness " (the north- 
 ern part of the State of New Yorkj, " and among scenes of 
 alarm, desolation, and bloodshed, is a speolacle too striking 
 not to fi.x our attention." In regions of savage wildness 
 the lady writes — 
 
 Come, my Susan ! quit your chamber, 
 
 Greet the opening bloom of May ; 
 Let us up you hillock clamber, 
 
 And around the scene survey. 
 
 Timothy Dwight, President of Yale College and a man 
 of learning and great ability, wrote the Conquest of Canaan 
 in eleven books, and various other poems, satires, and 
 psalms. We refrain from quotation. 
 
 John Trumbull, though not more of a poet than Dvi^ight, 
 requires some further notice. His two great works are the 
 Progress of Dullness, a satire, in Hudibrastic verse, on the 
 literature and manners of his time, and his better known 
 political Poem, M}Fingal, the first part of which was 
 written in 1775, at the request of some members of the 
 American Congress, with a view to affect public opinion 
 in favour of the war then beginning against the mother 
 country. The completed poem was published at Hartford, 
 Conn : , in 1782, had immense popularity and ran through 
 numerous editions. The story is not much. M'Fingal is 
 a Scotchman, a justice of the peace in a town near Boston, 
 
XXXIV COLONIAL POETRY. 
 
 and a loj"alist. He attends town meetings, mrtkes loyal 
 speeches, is tarred and featliered, has his house attacked, 
 and at last escapes to Boston. These are all the incidents 
 of a poem of four cantos and some thousands of lines, 
 a poem not without consideiable Tigour of both thought 
 and expression, but most worth remembering as one of the 
 forces of the struggle for American Independence. The 
 third Canto opens as follows : — 
 
 Xow warm with ministerial ire. 
 
 Fierce sallied forth our loyal 'squire (il'Fingal) 
 
 And on his striding steps attends 
 
 His desperate clan of tory friends. 
 
 When sudden met his wrathful eye 
 
 A pole ascending through the sky. 
 
 Which numerous throngs of whiggish race 
 
 Were raising in the market-place. 
 
 Not higher school-boys' kites aspire. 
 
 Or royal mast, or country spire ; 
 
 Like spears at Brobdignagian tilting. 
 
 Or Satan's walking-staif in Milton. 
 
 And on its top, the flag unfurl'd 
 
 Wared triumph o'er the gazing world, 
 
 Inscribed with inconsistent types 
 
 Of libert'j and thirteen stripes. 
 
 Beneath, the crowd without delay 
 
 The dedication-rites essay. 
 
 And gladly pay, in ancient fashion. 
 
 The ceremonies of libation ; 
 
 While briskly to each patriot lip 
 
 Walks eager round the inspiring flip : 
 
 Delicious draught ! whose powers inherit 
 
 The quintessence of public spirit ; 
 
 Which whoso tastes, perceives his mind 
 
 To nobler politics refined ; 
 
 Or roused to martial controversy. 
 
 As from transforming cups of Circe : 
 
 Or warm'd with Homer's nectar'd liquor, 
 
 That fiU'd the veins of gods with ichor. 
 
 At hand for new supplies in store, 
 
 The tavern opes its friendly door, 
 
 ■WTience to and fro the waiters ran. 
 
 Like bucket-men at fires in town. 
 
 Then with three shouts that tore the sky, 
 
 'Tis consecrate to liberty. 
 
 To guard it from the attacks of tories, 
 
 A grand committee cuU'd of four is ; 
 
COLONIAL POETRY. XXXV 
 
 Who foremost on the patriot spot. 
 Had brought the flip, and paid the shot. 
 
 By this, M'Fingal with his train 
 Advanced upon the adjacent plain, 
 And full with loyalty possess'd, 
 Pour'd forth the zeal that fired his breast. 
 
 " What mad-brain'd rebel gave commission. 
 To raise this May-pole of sedition ? 
 Like Babel, rear'd by brawling throngs, 
 With like confusion too of tongues, 
 To point at heaven, and summon down 
 The thunders of the British crown ? 
 Say, will this paltry pole secure 
 Your forfeit heads from Gage's power ? 
 Attack'd by heroes brave and crafty. 
 Is this to stand your ark of safety ; 
 Or driven by Scottish laird and laddie. 
 Think ye to rest heneath its shadow ? 
 When bombs, like fiery serpents, fly. 
 And balls rush hissing through the sky, 
 Will this vile pole, devote to freedom, 
 Save lite the Jewish pole in Edom ; 
 Or like the brazen snake of Moses, 
 Cure your crack'd ecuUs and batter'd noses ? " 
 
 We are already at tbe close of the Colonial period, in 
 the thick of the revolutionary war : but some words must 
 be given to Joel Barlovs^, in his day the Magnus Apollo of 
 American fame. His Vision of Columbus was wiitten 
 during the war, though not published until 1787. In 
 1792 he published his Oonspiracy of Kings; a little later his 
 Hasty Pudding, wiitten at Chambery in Savoj'. In 1808 
 appeared his great work, the Columhiad, an epic which 
 embraced " the history and topography as it were of the 
 w^hole American continent, . . . which treated of Manco 
 Capac and "Washington, Mexico and the battle of Bunker 
 Hill ; and contained long philosophical speculations upon 
 almost every subject — political, moral, and scientific;" — 
 of which (as Kettell himself cannot fail to perceive) the 
 versification, though elaborated with great care, is neither 
 flowing nor graceful, while the language is "tumid and 
 extravagant, and disfigured wilh omameuts that denote a 
 vitiated taste." As Kettell well remarks, Barlow was only 
 a poet by dint of study and labour; he wanted " imagina- 
 
XXXvi COLONIAL rOETRY. 
 
 tion, fire, and the niiwks of that inbred faculty of the sonl, 
 that refined intellectual feeling which pours out its 
 eneigies with a fervour that reaches the heait." 
 
 "in this connection" — to use an Americanism, — it roay 
 nf)t be amiss to serve up a taste of Joel Barlow's Hasty 
 Pudding. 
 
 Assist me first with pious toil to trace 
 Through wrecks of time thy lineage and thy race ; 
 Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore, 
 (Ere great Columhus sought thy native shore) 
 First gave tliee to the world ; her works of fame 
 Have lived indeed, but lived without a name. 
 Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days, 
 First learn'd with stones to crack the well-dried maize, 
 Through the rough sieve to shake the golden shower. 
 In boiling water stir the yellow flour : 
 The yellow flour, bestrew'd and stirr'd with hasto 
 Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste, 
 Tlien puffs and wallops, rises to the brim. 
 Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim ; 
 The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks, 
 And the whole mass its true consistence takes. 
 Could but her sacred name, unknown so long, 
 Else, like her labours, to the son of song, 
 To her, to them I'd consecrate my lays, 
 And blow her pudding with the breath of praise. 
 * K- 4 * * * 
 
 Thee the soft nations round the warm Levant 
 Fclaifta call, the French of course Fulante — 
 E'en in thy native regions, how I blush 
 To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush ! 
 On Hudson's banks while men of Belgic spa%vn 
 Insult and eat thee by the name Suppawu. 
 All spurious appellations, void of truth ; 
 I've better known thee from my earliest youth, 
 Thy name is Hasty-Pudding 1 thus our sires 
 "Were wont to greet thee fuming from their fires ; 
 And while they argued in thy just defence 
 "With logic clear, they thus explained the sense : — 
 " In haste the boiling cauldron, o'er the blaze, 
 Eeceives and cooks the ready powder'd maize ; 
 In liaste 'tis served, and then in equal Tiasle, 
 "With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast. 
 No carving to be done, no knife to grate 
 The tender ear, and wound the stony plate ; 
 But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip, 
 And taught with art the yielding mass to clip. 
 
COLONIAL POETRY. XXXVU 
 
 By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored, 
 Performs tlie hashj honours of the board." 
 Such is thy name, significant and clear, 
 A name, a sound to every Yankee dear. 
 
 We Lave tere taken notice of Trumbull and Barlow, 
 instead of ranking them with later writers, because their 
 beginnings were in colonial time, and because we find 
 nothing of their writing to fit a place in our Century of 
 Song. Their standing is as Poets of the Eevolution. Of 
 other occasional revolutionary verse the following are fair 
 samples : — 
 
 THE PATRIOTS' APPEAL. 
 
 (Printed in the Pennsylvania Chronicle, at Philadelphia, on the ith of 
 July, 1768 ; and copied by Griswold from a ballad sheet dated 1775.) 
 
 Come join hand and hand, brave Americans all ! 
 Awake through the land at fair Liberty's call ; 
 No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim, 
 Or stain with dishonour America's name 1 
 In freedom we're born, in freedom we'll live ; 
 Our purses are ready — 
 Steady, friends, steady ! — 
 Not as slaves, but as freemen, our money we'll give ! 
 
 Our worthy forefathers (let's give them a cheer !) 
 To climates unknown did courageously steer ; 
 Through oceans to deserts for freedom they came. 
 And, dying, bequeath'd us their freedom and fame ! 
 In freedom, etc. 
 
 Their generous bosoms all dangers despised. 
 So highly, so wisely, their birthrights they prized ; 
 What they gave let us cherish and piously keep, 
 Nor frustrate their toils on the land or the deep. 
 In freedom, etc. 
 
 The tree their own hands had to liberty rear'd. 
 They lived to behold growing strong and revered ; 
 With transport they cried, " Now our wishes we gain. 
 For our children shall gather the fruits of our pain." 
 In freedom, etc. 
 
 How Bweet are the labours that freemen endure, 
 Of which they enjoy all the profits secure 1 
 No longer such toils shall Americans know. 
 If Britons may reap what Americans sow ! 
 In freedom, etc. 
 
XXXVIU COLONIAL POETRY. 
 
 Swarms o^ filnccnen and pensioners e'en now appear 
 Like locusts deforming the cliarms of the year ! 
 Suns vainly will rise and sliowers vainly descend, 
 If we are to drude;e for what others may spend. 
 In freedom, etc. 
 
 Then join hand and hand, brave Americans all. 
 By uniting we stand, by dividing we fall ; 
 In so righteous a cause we may hope to succeed, 
 For .Heaven approves every generous deed. 
 In freedom, etc. 
 
 All ages and nations shall speak with applause 
 Of the courage we show in support of our cause, 
 To die we can bear, but to serve we disdain, 
 For shame is to freemen more dreadful than pain. 
 In freedom, etc. 
 
 A bumper to Freedom ! and as for the king, 
 "When he does deserve it his praises we'll sing ! 
 We wish Britain's glory Immortal may be. 
 If she is but just and we are but free ! 
 
 In freedom we're born, in freedom we'll live. 
 Our purses are ready — 
 Steady, boys, steady ! — 
 Our money as freemen, not slaves, we will give ! 
 
 BALLAD OF TEE TEA FARTT. 
 QSung to die Air of the " Hosier's Glicst.") 
 
 As near beauteous Boston lying. 
 
 On the gently swelling flood, 
 Without jack or pennant flying. 
 
 Three ill-fated tea-ships rode ; 
 
 Just as glorious Sol was setting. 
 On the wharf a numerous crew, 
 
 Sons of Freedom, fear forgetting. 
 Suddenly appear'd in view. 
 
 Arm'd with hammers, axes, chisels, 
 Weapons new for warlike deed, 
 
 Tow'rd the tax'd-tea-freighted vessels 
 They came boldly and with speed. 
 
 O'er their heads in lofty mid-sky, 
 Three bright angel forms were seen, 
 
 This was Hampden, that was Sidney, 
 With fair Liberty between. 
 
COLONIAL POETRY. XXXIX 
 
 " Soon," they cried, " your foes you'll baaish, 
 
 Soon the triumph will be won. 
 Scarce the setting sun shall vanish 
 
 Ere the glorious deed is done!" 
 
 Quick as thought the ships were boarded, 
 
 Hatches burst and chests dispJay'd : 
 Axes, hammers, help aiforded, 
 
 What a crash that eve was made ! 
 
 Deep into the sea descended 
 
 Cursed weed of China's coast ; 
 Thus at once our fears were ended ! — 
 
 British rights shall ne'er be lost ! 
 
 Captains ! once more hoist your streamers. 
 Spread your sails and plough the wave ; 
 
 Tell your masters they were dreamers 
 When they thought to cheat the brave. 
 
 The several extracts we have given are indeed a fair 
 sample of the early poetical produce of America. The first 
 settlers had other matters to occupy them : their time was 
 for action rather than contemplation. And for the eigh- 
 teenth century colonial rhyming, whether in subject or 
 quality, was not much unlike what during the sam^e period 
 passed for poetry in England. The early American writers 
 followed the English mode, being sfill in every respect 
 English themselves. Our review of Colonial Poetry may be 
 fitly concluded with a brief list of characteristic subjects, 
 extracted from a Catalogue appended by Kettell to his 
 Specimens of American Poetry. 
 
 The Psalms in Metre ; faitMully translated for the use, 
 edification and comfort of the Saints in public and private, 
 especially in New England. Cambridge, Stephen Daye, 1640. 
 Crown 8vo, pp. 300. 
 
 Several Poems compiled with great variety of wit and learn- 
 ing, fuU of delight : tvherein especially is contained a compleat 
 discourse and description of the four Elements, Constitutionsj 
 
xl COLONIAL POETRY. 
 
 Ages of !Man, Seasons of the Year, together with an exact 
 Epitome of the three first Monarchyes, namely, the Assyrian, 
 Persian, Grecian, and Romane Commonwealth, from the be- 
 ginning to the end of their last King, with diverse other pleasant 
 and serious Poems, by a Gentlewoman in New England. {Mrs. 
 Anne Bradstreet.) The second Edition, corrected by the author, 
 and enlarged by an addition of several poems found amongst 
 her papers after her death. Boston, John Foster, 1678. 18mo, 
 pp. 255. 
 
 A Lachrymatory, designed for the tears let fall at the funeral 
 of Mrs. Sarah Leveret, who died ^ ll"""- 1704, 5. Boston, 
 Samuel Phillips, 1705. 18mo, pp. 4. {JVitli a Funeral Sermon.) 
 
 Meat out of the Eater, or Meditations concerning the necessity 
 and usefulness of Affliction unto God's children, all tending to 
 prepare them for, and comfort them under the cross. By 
 Michael Wigglesworth, corrected and amended by the author 
 in the year 1703. The Fifth Edition. Boston, J. Allen for 
 Robert Starke, 1717. 18mo, pp. 143. 
 
 Psalterium Americanum, the book of Psalms, in a translation 
 exactly conformed unto the original, but all in blank verse ; 
 fitted unto the tunes commonly used in our churches. Which 
 pure offering is accompanied with illustrations digging for 
 hidden treasures in it, and rules to employ it upon the glorious 
 and various intentions of it. Whereto are added some other 
 portions of the Sacred Scripture to enrich the Cantional. (By 
 Cotton Mather.) Boston, S. Kneeland, 1718. 12mo, pp. 426. 
 
 Pitchero Threnodia, or an Blegiack Poem, sacred to the 
 memory of the late Rev: Nathaniel Pitcher, Pastor of the North 
 Church in Scituate &c. Boston, B. Green, 1 724. 12mo, pp. 12. 
 
 A Monumental Gratitude attempted, in a poetical relation of 
 the deliverance of several of the members of Yale College, in 
 passing the Sound from South Hold to New Haven, August 
 20th, 1726. New London, T. Green, 1727. pp. 10. 
 
 Zeuma, or the Love of Liberty, a Poem in three books, by 
 James Ralph. London, S. Billingsley, 1729. 8vo. 
 
 To BQs Excellency Governor Belcher, on the Death of his 
 Lady. An Epistle by the Rev : Mr. Byles. Boston, 1736. 4to, 
 pp. 8. 
 
COLONIAL POETRY. xli 
 
 On tlie death of tke Queen, a poem, inscribed to Hia Excel- 
 lency Governor Belcher, by the Rev.: Mr. Byles. Boston, J. 
 Draper, for D. Henchman, 1738. 4to, pp. 7. 
 
 The Day of Doom, or a poetical description of the great and 
 last Judgment, with a, short discourse about Eternity, by 
 Michael Wigglesworth, AM., Teacher of the Church in Maldon, 
 New England. The seventh edition enlarged. Boston, Thomas 
 Fleet, 1751. 18mo, pp. 114. 
 
 The Choice, a Poem after the manner of Mr. Pomfret. By a 
 Young Gentleman (B. Church). Boston, Edcs & Gill, 1757. 
 4:to, pp. 15. 
 
 New England's Misery. The Procuring Cause and Remedy 
 Proposed. Composed October 1758. Boston, Z. Fowle & &. 
 Draper, 1758. 12mo, pp. 15. 
 
 Ode on the Glorious success of His Majesty's arms and present 
 greatness of the English Nation (Nathaniel Evans). Phila- 
 delphia, William Dunlop, 1762. 4to, pp. 14. 
 
 Science. A Poem by Francis Hopkinson Esq. Philadelphia, 
 William Dunlop, 1762. 4to, pp. 19. 
 
 Resignation, in two parts, with a postscript to Mrs. B . 
 
 Philadelphia, 1764. 8vo. 
 
 Juvenile Poems on various subjects, with the Prince o£ 
 Parthia, a tragedy. By the late Mr. Thomas Godfrey jr. of 
 Philadelphia. Philadelphia, Henry Miller, 1765. 4to, pp. 223. 
 
 An Elegiac poem on the death of that celebrated divine and 
 eminent servant of Jesus Christ, the Rev: George Whitefield, 
 &c., by Phillis, a female slave of 17 years of age, belonging to 
 Mr. J. Wheatley of Boston. She has been but 9 years in this 
 country from Africa. Boston, Ezekiel Russell & J. Boyles, 
 1770. 
 
 A Poem on the rising glory of America, being an exercise 
 delivered at the public Commencement at Nassau Hall, Sep- 
 tember 28th, 1771 (Wm. Smith & P. Fretieau). Philadelphia, 
 R. Aitken, 1772. 8vo, pp. 27. 
 
 A poem addressed to a young lady, in three parts. Written 
 at Antigua. Boston, Green and Russell, 1773. 4to, pp. 33. 
 
 The Progress of Dullness, &c. (J. TnmibuU.) New Haven, 
 Thomas & Samuel Green, 1773. 15mo, pp. 21. 
 
xlii COLONIAL POETRY. 
 
 Poems on various subjects, Religious and Moral, by Phillis 
 Wheatlej-, negro servant to Mr. John Wheatley of Boston in 
 New England. London, A. Ball, 1773. 12mo, pp. 124. 
 
 American Libert}-, a Poem. New York, 3775. 8vo. 
 
 The Battle of Bunker's Hill, a Dramatic Piece, with a Mili- 
 tary Song. Philadelphia, 1776. 8vo. 
 
POETEY OF AMEEICA. 
 
 1776 TO 1876. 
 
 PHILIP PEENEAU. 
 Born in New York City 1752— died 1832. 
 
 TEE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. (1782.) 
 
 Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 
 
 Hid in this silent, dull retreat, 
 Untouch'd thy honey'd 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 array'd. 
 
 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 vTith 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 ; 
 TJnpitying frosts and Autumn's power 
 Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 
 
 B 
 
 <^ 
 
rOETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 From morning suns and evening dews 
 
 At first th}' little being came : 
 If nothing once, you nothing lose, 
 For when yon die you are the same ; 
 The space between is but an hour, 
 The frail duration of a flower. 
 
 THE IKDIAN BURYING GROUND. 
 
 Ix spite of all the leam'd have said, 
 
 I still my old opinion keep : 
 The posture that we give the dead, 
 
 Points out the soul's eternal sleep. 
 
 Kot 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 dress'd, 
 
 Bespeak the nature of the soul, 
 Activity, that knows 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 finer essence gone. 
 
 Thou, Stranger ! that shalt come this way, 
 No fraud upon the dead commit ; 
 
 Observe the swelling turf, and say, — 
 They do not lie, but here they sit. 
 
 Here still a lofty rock remains. 
 
 On which the curious eye may trace 
 
 (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains) 
 The fancies of a ruder race. 
 
JOSEPH HOPKINSON. 
 
 Here still an aged elm aspires, 
 
 Beneatli whose far projecting sliade 
 
 (And which the shepherd still admires} 
 The children of the forest play'd ! 
 
 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 vestments for the chase array 'd. 
 
 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. 
 
 JOSEPH HOPKINSON.* 
 
 Born at Philadelphia 1770— died 1842. 
 
 HAIL, COLUMBIA'. (1798.) 
 
 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, 
 Enjoy'd the peace your valour 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, 
 Eallying round oux Liberty ; 
 As a band of brothers join'd, 
 Peace and safety we shall find. 
 * See Note 1. 
 
POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 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-earn'd 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. 
 Pirm, united, &c. 
 
 Sound, sound the trump of Fame ! 
 
 Let Washington's great name 
 
 Eing through the world with loud applause, 
 Bing through the world with loud applause : 
 
 Let every clime to Freedom dear 
 
 Listen with a joyful ear. 
 
 With equal skill, and godlike power. 
 He governs in the fearful hour 
 Of horrid war ; or guides, with ease. 
 The happier times of honest peace. 
 Firm, united, &c. 
 
 Behold the chief who now comm.ands. 
 Once more to serve his country, stands — 
 The rock on which the storm will beat, 
 The rock on which the storm will beat : 
 But, arm'd in virtue firm and true. 
 His hopes are fix'd on Heaven and you. 
 WTien Hope was sinking in dismay, 
 And glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
 His steady mind, from changes free, 
 Eesolved on death or Liberty. 
 Firm, united, &c. 
 
( 5 ) 
 
 EOBEET TEEAT PAINE. 
 Bom at Taunton, Massachusetts, 1773 — died ISll. 
 
 ADAMS AND LIBERTY* 
 
 Te sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought 
 
 For those rights, which unstain'd from your sires had 
 descended. 
 May you long taste the blessings your valour has bought. 
 And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended. 
 'Mid the reign of mild Peace 
 May your nation increase. 
 With the glory of Eome, and the wisdom of Greece ; 
 And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
 While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
 In a cKme, whose rich vales feed the marts of the world, 
 
 Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion. 
 The trident of commerce should never be hurl'd. 
 To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean. 
 But should pirates invade, 
 Though in thunder array'd. 
 Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade. 
 For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
 While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
 The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway. 
 
 Had justly ennobled our nation in story, 
 'Till the dark cloiids of faction obscured our young day, 
 And enveloped the sun of American glory. 
 But let traitors be told. 
 Who their country have sold. 
 And barter'd their God for his image in gold, 
 That ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
 While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
 While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood, 
 And society's base threats with wide dissolution ; 
 * See Note 2. 
 
G POETRY OF AMERtCA. 
 
 Llay Peace, like tlie dove wlio rcturn'd from tlie Flood, 
 Find an ark of aliodc in our mild coustitutiou. 
 But though peace is our aim, 
 Yet the boon we disclaim, 
 If bought bj' our sovereignty, justice, or fame. 
 For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
 While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
 'Tis the fire of the flint each Aanerican warms : 
 
 Let Eome's haughty victors beware of collision ; 
 Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms ; 
 We're a world l\v ourselves, and disdain a division. 
 While, with patriot pride, 
 To our laws we're allied, 
 No foe can subdue us, no faction divide. 
 
 For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
 
 While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
 Our mountains are cro'mi'd with imperial oak, 
 
 Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nonrish'd ; 
 But long e'er our nation submits to the yoke. 
 
 Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourish'd. 
 Should invasion impend. 
 Every grove would descend 
 From the hill-tops they shaded, our shores to defend. 
 For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
 While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
 Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm ; 
 
 Lest our liberty's growth should be check'd by corrosion ; 
 Then let clouds thicken round us ; we heed not the storm ; 
 Our realm fears no shock but the earth's oyTii explosion. 
 Foes assail us in vain, 
 Though their fleets bridge the main, 
 For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain. 
 For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
 While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
 Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, 
 
 Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder ; 
 
FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. i 
 
 For, unmoved, at its portal would Washington stand. 
 And rejiulse, witli his breast, the assaults of the thunder ! 
 His sword, from the sleep 
 Of its scabbard would leap, 
 And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep ! 
 For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
 "While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
 Let Fame to the world sound America's voice ; 
 
 No intrigues can her sons from their government sever ; 
 Her pride is her Adams ; her laws are his choice, 
 And shall flourish, till Liberty slumbers forever. 
 Then unite heart and hand, 
 Like Leonidas' band, 
 And swear to the God of the ocean and land. 
 That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
 While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
 FEANCIS SCOTT KEY. 
 
 Born in Maryland 1779— died 1813. 
 TEE STAB-SPANGLED BANNER.* 
 
 ! SAT, can you see by the dawn's early light 
 
 What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleam- 
 ing— 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous 
 fight. 
 O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly stream- 
 ing ' ... 
 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting m air 
 
 Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 
 
 there ; 
 ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 
 
 On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep. 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
 As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 
 * See Note 3. 
 
8 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
 Its full glory reflected now shines on tbc stream ; 
 'Tis the star-spangk'd banner; 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 wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollu- 
 tion. 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 From the teiTor of flight, or 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. 
 
 ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
 
 Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ! 
 Blest vnth victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescned 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. 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 Bom in South Carolina 1799— died 18i3. 
 
 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN* 
 
 All hail 1 thou noble land. 
 Our fathers' native soil ! 
 stretch thy mighty hand, 
 Gigantic grown by toil. 
 O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore : 
 Por thou, with magic might. 
 Canst reach to where the light 
 Of Phoebus travels bright 
 The world o'er ! 
 
 * See Note 4. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 9 
 
 Tlie Genius of our clime, 
 
 From pine-embattled steep, 
 Sliall hail the great sublime ; 
 While the Tritons of the deep 
 With their couchs the kindred league shall proclaim : 
 Then let the world combine ! 
 O'er the main our naval line. 
 Like the Milky Way, shall shine 
 Bright in fame. 
 
 Though ages long have pass'd 
 
 Since our fathers left their home, 
 Their pilot in the blast, 
 
 O'er untravel'd seas to roam, — 
 Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
 And shall we not proclaim 
 That blood of honest fame. 
 Which no tyranny can tame 
 By its chains ? 
 
 MTiile the language, free and bold, 
 
 Which the Bard of Avon sung. 
 In which our Milton told 
 
 How the vault of heaven rung. 
 When Satan, blasted, fell with all his host, — 
 While this, with reverence meet. 
 Ten thousand echoes greet, 
 From rock to rock repeat 
 Bound our coast, — 
 
 While the manners, while the arts 
 
 That mould a nation's soul, 
 Still cling around our hearts. 
 Between let Ocean roll, 
 Our joint communion breaking with the sun : 
 Yet, still, from either beach. 
 The voice of blood shall reach, 
 More audible than speech, 
 " We are One ! " 
 
10 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 JAMES KIEKE TAULDIXG.* 
 
 Born in Duchess County, New York, 1770 — died ISOO. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S CAUOVSAL. 
 
 Drink ! drink ! to wJiom shall we diiiik ? 
 To a friend or a mistress ? Come, let me tliiiik ! 
 To those who are absent, or those who are here ? 
 To the dead that we loved, or the living still dear ? 
 Alas ! when I look, I iind none of the last ! 
 The present is barren, — let's drink to the past ! 
 
 Come ! here's to the girl with a voice sweet and low, 
 The eye all of fire and the bosom of snow. 
 Who erewhile in the days of my youtli that are fled, 
 Once slejst on my bosom, and pillow'd my head ! 
 Would you know where to find such a delicate prize ? 
 Go seek in yon churchyard, for therein she lies. 
 
 And here's to the friend, the one friend of my youth, 
 With a head full of genius, a heart full of truth, 
 Who travel'd with me in the sunshine of life. 
 And stood by my side in its peace and its strife ! 
 Would you know where to seek for a blessing so rare ? 
 Go drag the lone sea, you may find him there. 
 
 And here's to a brace of twin cherubs of mine. 
 With hearts like their mother's, as pure as this wine. 
 Who came but to see the first act of the play, 
 Grew tired of the scene, and then both went away. 
 Would you know where this brace of bright cherubs have 
 
 hied? 
 Go seek them in heaven, for there they abide. 
 
 A bumper, my boys ! to a gray-headed pair. 
 Who watched o'er my childhood with tenderest care, 
 God bless them, and keep them, and may they look do'mi. 
 On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, or frown ! 
 Would you know whom I drink to ? go seek 'mid the dead, 
 Tou will find both their names on the stone at their head. 
 * See Note 5. 
 
WILLIAM MAXWELL — JOHN PIERPONT. 11 
 
 And here's — but, alas ! tlie good wine is no more, 
 
 The bottle is emptied of all its bright store ; 
 
 Like those we have toasted, its spirit is fled, 
 
 And nothing is left of the light that it shed. 
 
 Then, a bumper of tears, boys ! the banquet here ends, 
 
 With a health to our dead, since we've no living friends. 
 
 WILLIAM MAXWELL. 
 
 Born at Norfolk, Virginia, 17S4 — died 1857. 
 
 TO A FAIR LADY. 
 
 Fairest ! mourn not for thy charms 
 Circled by no lover's arms. 
 While inferior belles you see 
 Pick up husbands merriljr. 
 Sparrows, when they choose to pair. 
 Meet their matches anywhere ; 
 But the Phoenix, sadly great, 
 Can not find an equal mate. 
 Earth, though dark, enjoys the honour 
 Of a moon to w^ait upon her ; 
 Venus, though divinely bright. 
 Can not boast a satellite. 
 
 JOHN PIEEPONT. 
 Bom at Litchfield, Connecticut, 1785 — died 1866. 
 
 PLYMOUTH DEDICATION STUIN. 
 
 The winds and waves were roaring ; 
 
 The Pilgrims met for prayer ; 
 And here, their God adoring, 
 
 They stood, in open air. 
 When breaking day they greeted. 
 
 And w^hen its close was calm, 
 The leafless w^oods repeated 
 
 The music of their psalm. 
 
12 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Not thus, God, to praise Tlieo, 
 
 Do we, tlieir cliildien, tlu-oug ; 
 Tlie temple's arcb. we raise Thee 
 
 Gives back our choral song. 
 Yet, on the winds that bore Thee 
 
 Their worship and their prayers, 
 May ours come up before Thee 
 
 From hearts as true as theirs ! 
 
 What have we, Lord ! to bind us 
 
 To this, the Pilgrims' shore ? 
 Their hill of graves behind us, 
 
 Their watery way before, 
 The wintry surge that dashes 
 
 Against the rocks they trod. 
 Their memory, and their ashes :• 
 
 Be Thou their guard, God ! 
 
 We would not, Holy Father ! 
 
 Forsake this hallow'd spot 
 Till on that shore we gather 
 
 Where graves and griefs are not : 
 The shore where true devotion 
 
 Shall rear no pillar'd shrine. 
 And see no other ocean 
 
 Than that of love divine. 
 
 MT CSILD. 
 
 I CAN NOT make him dead ! 
 
 His fair sunshiny head 
 Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 
 
 Yet, when my eyes, now dim 
 
 With tears, I turn to him. 
 The vision vanishes — he is not there ! 
 
 I walk my parlour floor. 
 
 And, through the open door, 
 I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 
 
 I'm stepping tow'rd the hall 
 
 To give the boy a call ; 
 And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 
 
JOHN PIERPONT. 13 
 
 I thread the crowded street ; 
 
 A satchel'd lad I meet, 
 With the same beaming o^'^es and color'd hair : 
 
 And, as he's ninning by, 
 
 Follow him with my ej'e. 
 Scarcely believing that-— /ic is not there ! 
 
 I know his face is hid 
 
 Under the coffin-lid ; 
 Closed are his ej'es ; cold is his forehead fair ; 
 
 My hand that marble felt ; 
 
 O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
 Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 
 
 I can not make him dead I 
 
 When passing by the bed, 
 So long watch'd over with parental care, 
 
 My spirit and my eye 
 
 Seek him inquiringly, 
 Before the thought comes that — ^he is not there ! 
 
 When, at the cool gray break 
 
 Of day, from sleep I wake, 
 With my first breathing of the morning air 
 
 My soul goes up, with joy, 
 
 To Him who gave my boy ; 
 Then comes the sad thought that — ^he is not there ! 
 
 When at the day's calm close, 
 
 Before we seek repose, 
 I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, 
 
 Whate'er I may be saying, 
 
 I am in spirit praying 
 For our boy's spirit, though — ^he is not there ! 
 
 Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? 
 
 The form I used to see 
 Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 
 
 The grave, that now doth press 
 
 Upon that cast-off dress. 
 Is but his wardrobe lock'd ; — Tie is not there ! 
 
14 POETKY OF AMERICA. 
 
 He lives ! — In all tke past 
 
 Ho lives ; nor, to the last, 
 Of seeing him again vrill I despair ; 
 
 In dreams I see him now ; 
 
 And on his angel brovy, 
 I see it written — " Thou shalt see me there ! " 
 
 Yes, we all live to God ! 
 
 Father ! Thy chastening rod 
 So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear. 
 
 That, in the spirit land. 
 
 Meeting at Thy right hand, 
 'Twill be our heaven to find that — ^he is there ! 
 
 CENTENNIAL ODE. 
 
 Break forth in song, ye trees ! 
 As through your tops the breeze 
 
 Sweeps from the sea ! 
 For, on its rushing wings. 
 To your cool shades and springs 
 That breeze a people brings, 
 
 Exiled though free. 
 
 Te sister liills ! lay down 
 Of ancient oaks your crown. 
 
 In homage due ; 
 These are the great of earth, — 
 Great, not by kingly birth, 
 Great in their well-proved worth, 
 
 Firm hearts and tme. 
 
 These are the living lights. 
 
 That from your bold green heights 
 
 Shall shine afar. 
 Till they who name the name 
 Of Freedom, tow'rd the flame 
 Come, as the Magi came 
 
 Tow'rd Bethlehem's Star. 
 
SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 15 
 
 Gone are tliose great and good 
 Who here in peril stood 
 
 And raised their hj'mn.' 
 Peace to the reverend dead ! 
 The light, that on their head 
 Two hundred years have shed, 
 
 Shall ne'er grow dim. 
 
 Te temples, that to God 
 Eise where our fathers trod ! 
 
 Guard well j'our trust : 
 The faith that dared the sea, 
 The truth that made them free, 
 Their cherish'd purity. 
 
 Their garner'd dust. 
 
 Thou high and holy One ! 
 Whose care for sire and son 
 
 All nature fills, — 
 While day shall break and close, 
 While night her crescent shows, 
 0, let Thy light repose 
 
 On these our hills ! 
 
 SAMUEL WOODWOETH. 
 Born at Scituate, Massachusetts, 1785 — died 1842. 
 
 THE BUCKET. 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
 
 When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood. 
 
 And every loved spot which my infancy knew^ ; 
 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which 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 -which hung in the well ! 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
 The moss-cover'd bucket, v^hich hung in the well. 
 
IC POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 That moss-oovor'd vessel I liail as a treasiire"; 
 
 For often, at noon, when return'd from the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can j'ield. 
 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-cover'd 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. 
 
 Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved situation. 
 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
 
 And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
 The moss-cover'd bucket, ■which hangs in his well. 
 
 EICHAED HENRY DANA.* 
 
 Bom at Cambridge, Mass : 17S7. 
 TSE LITTLE BEACH BIRD. 
 
 Thou little bird ! thou dweller by the sea ! 
 Why takest thou its melancholy voice, 
 And with that boding cry 
 O'er the waves dost thou fly ? 
 O ! rather, bird ! with me 
 
 Through the fair land rejoice ! 
 
 Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale. 
 As driven by the beating storm at sea ; 
 Thy cry is weak and scared. 
 As if thy mates had shared 
 The doom of us. Thy wail — 
 What does it bring to me ? 
 * See Note 6. < 
 
RIOHAKD HENRY DANA. 17 
 
 Thou call'st along tte sand, and haunt'st the surge, 
 Eestless and sad ; as if, in strange accord 
 With the motion and the roar 
 Of waves that drive to shore. 
 One spirit did ye urge, — 
 The Mystery— the Word. 
 
 Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall. 
 Old Ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the dead 
 From out thy gloomy cells 
 A tale of mourning tells, — 
 Tells of man's woe and fall. 
 His sinless glory fled. 
 
 Then turn thee, little bird ! and take thy flight 
 Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring 
 Thy spirit never more ! 
 Come, quit with me the shore 
 Por gladness, and the light 
 Where birds of summer sing ! 
 
 TZE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR TEE POET. 
 
 Though I am humble, slight me not, 
 But love me for the Poet's sate ; 
 
 Forget me not till he's forgot ; 
 
 I care or slight vsdth him would take. 
 
 For oft he pass'd the blossoms by. 
 And gazed on me with kindly look ; 
 
 Left flaunting flowers and open sky. 
 And woo'd me by the shady brook. 
 
 And like the brook his voice was low : 
 So soft, so sad the words he spoke. 
 
 That with the stream they seem'd to flow : 
 They told me that his heart was broke ; — 
 
 c 
 
18 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Tlioy said, tlie world he fain would slmn, 
 And seek the still and twilight wood, — 
 
 His spirit, weary of the sun. 
 
 In humblest things found cliiefest good ; — 
 
 That I ■5vas of a lowly frame, 
 
 And far more constant than the flower, 
 
 Which, vain with many a boastful name. 
 But flutter'd out its idle hour ; 
 
 That I was kind to old deca3% 
 
 And wrapt it softly round in green, 
 
 On naked root and trunk of gray 
 
 Spread out a garniture and screen : — 
 
 They said, that he "was withering fast. 
 Without a sheltering friend like me ; 
 
 That on his manhood fell a blast, 
 And left him bare, like yonder tree ; 
 
 That spring would clothe Ms boughs no more. 
 Nor ring his boughs with song of bird, — 
 
 Sounds like the melancholy shore 
 
 Alone were through his branches heard. 
 
 Methought, as then, he stood to trace 
 The wither'd stems, there stole a tear, 
 
 That I could read in his sad face — 
 Brothers ! our sorrows make us near. 
 
 And then he stretch'd him all along. 
 And laid his head upon my breast. 
 
 Listening the water's peaceful song. 
 How glad was I to tend his rest ! 
 
 Then happier grew his soothed soul. 
 
 He tui-n'd and watch'd the sunlight play 
 Upon my face, as in it stole. 
 
 Whispering — " Above is iDrighter day ! " 
 
EICHAED HENRY DANA. 19 
 
 He praised my varied hues, — tlie green, 
 Tlie silver hoar, the golden bro^vn ; 
 
 Said — Lovelier hues were never seen ; 
 Then gently press'd mj' tender down. 
 
 And where I sent up little shoots, 
 He call'd them trees, in fond conceit : 
 
 Like sillj' lovers in their suits 
 
 He talk'd, his care awhile to cheat. 
 
 I said, I'd deck me in the dews. 
 
 Could I but chase away his care. 
 And clothe me in a thousand hues. 
 
 To bring him joys that I might share. 
 
 He answer'd, earth no blessing had 
 To cure his lone and aching heart ; 
 
 That I was one, when he w^as sad, 
 Oft stole him from his pain, in part. 
 
 But e'en from thee, he said, I go. 
 
 To meet the Trorld, its care and strife. 
 
 No more to w^atch this quiet flow. 
 Or spend with thee a gentle life. 
 
 And yet the brook is gliding on. 
 
 And I, without a care, at rest; 
 While back to toiling life he's gone. 
 
 Where finds his head no faithful breast. 
 
 Deal gently with him. World ! I pray ; 
 
 Ye cares ! like soften'd shadows come ; 
 His spirit, well-nigh worn away. 
 
 Asks with ye but awhile a home. 
 
 0, may I live, and when he dies 
 
 Be at his feet a humble sod ; 
 O, may I lay me where he Kes, 
 
 To die when he awakes in God ! 
 
20 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 LYDIA HOWAED HUNTLEY SIGOUENEY. 
 
 Born at Norwich, Conuecticut, 1791 — died 1SG5. 
 
 INDIAN NAMES. 
 
 Ye say they all have pass'd away, 
 
 That noble race and brave ; 
 That their light canoes have vanish'd 
 
 Erom oflf the crested wave ; 
 That, 'mid the forests where they roam'd. 
 
 There rings no hunter's shout : 
 But their name is on your waters, 
 
 Ye may not wash it out. 
 
 'Tis where Ontario's billow 
 
 Like ocean's surge is curl'd, 
 Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 
 
 The echo of the world, 
 Where red Missouri bringeth 
 
 Rich tribute from the ^Vest, 
 And Eappahannock sweetly sleeps 
 
 On green Virginia's breast. 
 
 Ye say their cone-like cabins. 
 
 That cluster'd o'er the vale, 
 Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves 
 
 Before the autumn's gale ; 
 But their memory liveth on your hills, 
 
 Their baptism on your shore, 
 Your everlasting rivers speak 
 
 Their dialect of yore. 
 
 Old Massachusetts wears it 
 
 Within her lordly crown, 
 And broad Ohio bears it 
 
 Amid his young renown ; 
 Connecticut hath vsoreath'd it 
 
 Where her quiet foliage waves, 
 And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 
 
 Through all her ancient caves. 
 
CHARLES SPKAGUE. 21 
 
 Wacliusott hides its lingering voice 
 
 Witliin its rocky heart, 
 And Alleghany graves its tone 
 
 Throughout his lofty chart. 
 Mouadnock, on his forehead hoar, 
 
 Doth seal the sacred trust : 
 Your mountains build their monument. 
 
 Though ye destroy their dust. 
 
 CHAELES SPEAGUE. 
 Bom at Boston, Mass : 1791— died 1875. 
 
 TEE WINGED WORSSIPFERS. 
 (to two swallows in a chuech.) 
 
 Gat, guiltless pair ! 
 What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? 
 
 Ye have no need of prayer. 
 Ye have no sins to he forgiven. 
 
 Why perch ye here. 
 Where mortals to their Maker bend ? 
 
 Can your pure spirits fear 
 The God ye never could offend ? 
 
 Ye never knew 
 The crimes for ■which we come to weep : 
 
 Penance is not for you, 
 Bless'd wanderers of the upper deep ! 
 
 To you 'tis given 
 To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; 
 
 Beneath the arch of heaven 
 To chirp away a life of praise. 
 
 Then spread each wing. 
 Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, 
 
 And join the choirs that sing 
 In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands ! 
 
 Or, if ye stay, 
 To note the consecrated hour, 
 
 I'each me the airy way. 
 And let me try your envied power ! 
 
22 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Above the crowd 
 On up-ward wings could I but fly, 
 
 I'd bathe in yon bright cloud. 
 And seek the stars that gem the sky. 
 
 'Twere heaven indeed, 
 Through fields of trackless light to soar, 
 
 On nature's charms to feed, 
 And nature's own great God adore. 
 
 l^ATHANIEL LANGDON FEOTHINGHAM. 
 
 Bom at Boston, Mass : 1793— died 1870. 
 
 ySE CROSSED SWOEDS* 
 
 Swords cross'd, — but not in strife ! 
 The chiefs who drew them, parted by the space 
 Of two proud countries' quarrel, face to face 
 Ne'er stood for death or life. 
 
 Swords cross'd, that never met 
 While nerve was in the hands that wielded them ; 
 Hands better destined a fair family stem 
 On these free shores to set. 
 
 Kept cross'd by gentlest bands 1 
 Emblems no more of battle, but of peace ; 
 And proof how loves can grow and wars can cease. 
 Their once stem symbol stands. 
 
 It smiled first on the array 
 Of marshal'd books and friendliest companies ; 
 And here, a history among histories, 
 It still shall smile for aye. 
 
 See that thou memory keep. 
 Of him the firm commander ; and that other. 
 The stainless judge ; and him our peerless brother ;- 
 All fallen now asleep ! 
 
 Yet more : a lesson teach, 
 To cheer the patriot-soldier in his course, — 
 That Eight shall triumph still o'er insolent Force : 
 That be your silent speech ! 
 
 * See Note 7. 
 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 23 
 
 Oh, be prophetic too ! 
 
 And may those nations twain, as sign and seal 
 Of endless amity, hang up their steel, 
 As we these weapons do 1 
 
 The archives of the Past, 
 
 So smear'd with blots of hate and bloody wrong, 
 Pining for peace, and sick to wait so long, 
 Hail this meek cross at last. 
 
 JOSEPH EODMAN DEAKE. 
 
 Bom in New York 1795— died 1820. 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain height 
 
 Unfurl'd her standard to the air. 
 She tore the azure robe of night. 
 
 And set the stars of glory there ; 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 The milky baldric of the skies. 
 And striped its pure celestial white 
 With streakings of the morning light ; 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 She call'd 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 ! 
 
24 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Flag of tlie brave ! tliy folds shall fly, 
 
 The sigu 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 dimm'd the glistening bayonet, 
 Each soldier eye shall brightlj^ turn 
 
 To where thy sky-born glories bum, 
 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 sink 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 splendours fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 
 
 By angel hands to valour given ; 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were bom in heaven. 
 For ever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us. 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. 
 
 And Freedom's banner streamina" o'er us ? 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 25 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BEYANT.* 
 
 Born at Cummingtou, Mass: 1794. 
 
 TO A WATEB-FOWL. 
 
 Whither, 'midst falling dew, 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary \ray? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darkly seen against the crimson sky. 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean-side ? 
 
 There is a power whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast. 
 The desert and illimitable air, — 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fann'd. 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ; 
 Tet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest. 
 
 Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaveii 
 Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart ; 
 
 He who, from zone to zone, 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 
 Wni lead my steps aright. 
 * See Note 8. 
 
•2G POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 HTiMX TO THE NOBTII STAIi. 
 
 The sad and solemn night 
 Hath 3'et her multitude of cheerful fires ; 
 
 The glorious host of light 
 Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; 
 All through her silent watches, gliding slow, 
 Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. 
 
 Day, too. hath many a star 
 To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they ; 
 
 Through the blue fields afar, 
 Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : 
 Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, 
 Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. 
 
 And thou dost see them rise, 
 Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them set. 
 
 Alone, in thy cold skies. 
 Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, 
 Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, 
 Xor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. 
 
 There, at mom's rosy birth. 
 Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, 
 
 And eve, that round the earth 
 Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; 
 There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 
 The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. 
 
 Alike, beneath thine eye, 
 The deeds of darkness and of light are done ; 
 
 High tow'rds the star-lit sky 
 Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun, 
 The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud, 
 And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. 
 
 On thine unaltering blaze, 
 The half-wreck'd mariner, his compass lost, 
 
 Fixes his steady gaze. 
 And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 27 
 
 And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, 
 Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps 
 right. 
 
 And, therefore, hards of old. 
 Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood. 
 
 Did in thy beams behold 
 A beauteous type of that unchanging good. 
 That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray 
 The voyager of Time should shape his heedful way. 
 
 TEE 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. 
 Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie 
 
 dead ; 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbits' 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 perish'd long ago ; 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer 
 glow ; 
 
28 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 But on the liill tlie 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 squinel 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 fijid 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 forest cast 
 
 the leaf, 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 
 
 brief : 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of 
 
 ours. 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 
 
 TEE EVENING WIND. 
 
 Spirit that breathest through my lattice ! thou 
 That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day 
 
 Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
 Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 
 
 Eiding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
 
 Eoughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, 
 
WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT. 29 
 
 And swelling tlie white sail. I welcome tliee 
 To tlie scorcli'd land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 
 
 Nor I alone ; — a thousand bosoms round 
 
 Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 
 And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
 
 Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
 And, languishing to hear thj' grateful sound, 
 
 Lies the vast inland, stretch'd bej'ond the sight. 
 Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth — 
 God's blessing breath'd upon the fainting earth ! 
 
 Go, rock the little "wood-bird on his nest ; 
 
 Curl the still waters, bright with stars ; and rouse 
 The wide, old wood from his majestic rest, 
 
 Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, 
 The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast ! 
 
 Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
 The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 
 And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. 
 
 Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
 The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone ; 
 
 That they who near the churchyard willows stray, 
 And listen in the deepening gloom, alone. 
 
 May think of gentle souls that pass'd away, 
 Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown. 
 
 Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, 
 
 And gone into the boundless heaven again ! 
 
 The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
 To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 
 
 And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread 
 
 His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 
 
 And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
 Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 
 
 And softly part his curtains to allow 
 
 Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 
 
80 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Gro ! — but the circle of eternal change. 
 Which is the life of nature, shall restore, 
 
 With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
 Thee to thj' birth-place of the deep once more. 
 
 Sweet odours in the sea air, sweet and strange, 
 Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; 
 
 And, listening to thj' murmur, he shall deem 
 
 He hears the rustling leaf and iruuning stream. 
 
 TO TEE FMNGED GENTIAN* 
 
 Thoit blossom bright with autumn dew. 
 And colour'd wdth 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 colum.bines, in purple dress'd. 
 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 
 
 Thou waitest late and com'st alone, 
 ^Vhen 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 fi-om 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. 
 
 * See Note 9. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 31 
 
 MTMN OF THE CITY. 
 
 Not in the solitude 
 Alone may man commune with. Heaven, or see 
 
 Only in savage wood 
 And sunny vale, the present Deity ; 
 
 Or only hear His voice 
 Wliere the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. 
 
 Even here do I behold 
 Thy steps, Almighty ! — here, amidst the crowd, 
 
 Througli the great city roll'd, 
 With everlasting murmur deep and loud, — 
 
 Choking the ways that wind 
 ■ 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human-kind. 
 
 Thy golden sunshine comes 
 From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, 
 
 And lights their inner homes ; 
 For them Thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies. 
 
 And givest them the stores 
 Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 
 
 Thy Spirit is around, 
 Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; 
 
 And this eternal sound — 
 Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng — 
 
 Like the resounding sea, 
 Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee. 
 
 And when the hours of rest 
 Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, 
 
 Hushing its billowy breast, — ' 
 The quiet of that moment too is Thine, 
 
 It breathes of Him who keeps 
 The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. 
 
•32 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 TRE CROWDED STREET. 
 
 Let me move slowlj^ throiigli tlie street, 
 Fill'd with an ever-shifting train, 
 
 Amid the sound of steps that beat 
 
 The m.urmuring 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. 
 
 With mute caresses shall declare 
 The tenderness they cannot speak. 
 
 And some, who walk in calmness here. 
 Shall shudder as they reach the door 
 
 Wliere 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 ! 
 
 Goest 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 ? 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. S3 
 
 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 WANING MOON. 
 
 I've watch'd too late ; the mom is near ; 
 
 One look at God's broad silent sky ! 
 Oh, hopes and w^ishes vainly dear, 
 
 How in your very strength ye die ! 
 
 Bv'n while your glow is on the cheek, 
 And scarce the high pursuit begun, 
 
 The heart grows faint, the hand grows w^eak, 
 The task of life is left undone. 
 
 See where upon the horizon's brim, 
 Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars ; 
 
 The waning moon, all pale and dim, 
 Goes up amid the eternal stars. 
 
 Late, in. a flood of tender light, 
 
 She floated through the ethereal blue, 
 
 A softer sun, that shone all night 
 Upon the gathering beads of dew. 
 
 And still thou wanest, pallid moon ! 
 
 The encroaching shadow grows apace ; 
 Heaven 's everlasting watchers soon 
 
 Shall see thee blotted from thy place. 
 
34 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Oh, Night's dethroned and crownless queen ! 
 
 Well may thy sad, expiring ray 
 Be shod on those whoso eyes have seen 
 
 Hope's glorious visions fade away. 
 
 Shine thou for forms that once were bright, 
 For sages in the mind's eclipse, 
 
 For those whose words were spells of might, 
 But falter now on stammering lips ! 
 
 In thy decaying beam there lies 
 
 Full many a grave on hill and plain, 
 
 Of those who closed their dying eyes 
 In grief that they had lived in vain. 
 
 Another night, and thou among 
 
 The spheres of heaven slialt cease to shine. 
 
 All rayless in the glittering throng 
 
 Whose lustre late was quench'd in thine. 
 
 Yet soon a new and tender light 
 
 From out thy darken'd orb shall beam. 
 
 And broaden till it shines all night 
 
 On glistening dew and glimmering stream. 
 
 THE TBIBD OF NOVEMBMB, 1861. 
 
 Softly breathes the west-wind beside the ruddy forest, 
 Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies. 
 
 Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third daj' of November. 
 Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies. 
 
 Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows. 
 Spared the petted flowers that the old world gave the 
 new, 
 
 Spared the autumn rose and the garden's group of pansies 
 Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue. 
 
 On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungather'd ; 
 
 Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, 
 Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside then 
 
 Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 60 
 
 Glorious are the -^oods in their latest gold and crimson, 
 Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green. 
 
 Such a kindly autunin, so mercifully dealing 
 
 With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. 
 
 Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me ; 
 
 Past is manhood's summer, the frostj' months are here ; 
 Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me. 
 
 Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing j^ear ! 
 
 Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are wither'd; 
 
 Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast, 
 When, upon the hillside, all harden'd into iron. 
 
 Howling, like a wolf, flies the famish'd northern blast ! 
 
 Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer 
 With delight on nature, or hope on human kind ! 
 
 Oh may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me. 
 Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful mind ! 
 
 WAITING Br THE GATE. 
 
 Besede a massive gateway built up in years gone by, 
 Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie. 
 While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea, 
 I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 
 
 The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, 
 A soft and soothing soTind, yet it whispers of the night ; 
 I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more. 
 And scent the flowers that blow w^hen the heat of day is 
 o'er. 
 
 Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now. 
 There steps a weary one with a pale and furrow'd brow ; 
 His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought ; 
 He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. 
 
 In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour 
 
 Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. 
 
 I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden 
 
 day, 
 And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. 
 
36 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Again tlie hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws 
 A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ; 
 A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair. 
 Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and fair. 
 
 Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays ! 
 Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze ! 
 Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air 
 Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies wo know not where ! 
 
 I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then 
 
 withdrawn ; 
 But still the sun shines round me : the evening bird sings 
 
 on, 
 And I again am sooth 'd, and, beside the ancient gate. 
 In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. 
 
 Once more the gates are open'd ; an infant group go out. 
 The sweet smile quench'd forever, and still'd the sprightly 
 
 shout. 
 Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows 
 Its fair young buds unopen'd, with every wind that blow^s ! 
 
 So come from every region, so enter, side by side, 
 
 The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. 
 
 Steps of earth's great and mightj^ between those pillars 
 
 gray, 
 And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way. 
 
 And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank 
 
 with fear, 
 And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing 
 
 near, 
 As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye 
 Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. 
 
 I mark the joy, the terror, yet these, within my heart, 
 Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart ; 
 And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea, 
 I stand and calmly w^ait till the hinges turn for me. 
 
( 37 ) 
 JAMES FITZ-GEEENE HALLECK* 
 
 Born at Guilford, Conn : 1795— died 1867. 
 MARCO BOZZAEIS. 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent. 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 
 "When Greece, her knee in suppliauce bent. 
 Should tremble at his power. 
 
 In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
 
 The trophies of a conqueror ; 
 
 lu dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
 
 Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, — 
 
 Then press'd that monarch's throne — a kingj 
 
 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 Platasa's day ; 
 And now there breath'd that haunted air 
 The sons of sires who conquer'd there, 
 With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
 
 As quick, as far, as they. 
 
 An hour pass'd 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 arm'd foe expires ; 
 * See Kote 10. 
 
38 POETRY OF, -AMERICA. 
 
 Striko — for your altars and j'oiir fires ; 
 Strike — for tho green graves of your sires ; 
 God — and your native land ! " 
 
 They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 
 
 They piled that ground with Jloslem slain ; 
 They conquer'd ; — 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-bom'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 ai-t 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 sw^ord 
 
 Has won the battle for the free. 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's w^ord ; 
 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 eyes' unearthly light 
 To him is welcome as the sight 
 
 Of sky and stars to prison'd men ; 
 
JAMES FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 39 
 
 Thy grasi3 is welcome as the hand 
 Of brothel" in a foreign land ; 
 Thjr summons welcome as the cry 
 That told the Indian isles were nigh 
 
 To the world-seeking Genoese, 
 When the land-wind, from woods of palm. 
 And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 
 
 Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 
 
 Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 Eest thee! — there is no prouder grave. 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
 Like torn branch from death's leafless tree. 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 Long loved, and for a season gone ; 
 For thee her poet's lyre is wreath'd. 
 Her marble wrought, her music breath'd ; 
 For thee she rings the birth-day bells ; 
 Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
 For thine her evening prayer is said 
 At palace couch, and cottage bed ; 
 Her soldier, closing with the foe, ' 
 
 Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
 His plighted maiden, when she fears 
 For him, the joy of her young years. 
 Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 
 
 And she, the mother of thy boys. 
 Though in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 
 The memory of her buried joys, — 
 And even she who gave thee birth, — 
 Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 
 
 Talk of thy doom VTithout a sigh : 
 For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, — 
 One of the few, the immortal names 
 
 That were not born to die. 
 
40 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 JAMES GATES PEECIVAL. 
 
 Born at Berlin, Conn : 1795— died 1800. 
 
 IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO VIE. 
 
 O ! IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are 
 contending : 
 Bright is the wreath of our fame ; glory awaits us for 
 aye, — 
 Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never 
 ending — 
 Glory that never shall fade, never, ! never away. 
 
 ! it is sweet for our country to die ! How softly reposes 
 
 Warrior j'outh on his bier, wet by the tears of his love. 
 
 Wet by a mother's w^arm tears; they cro^vn him with 
 
 garlands of roses, 
 
 Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs 
 
 above. 
 
 Not to the shades shall the youth descend who for country- 
 hath perish'd ; 
 Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with 
 her smile ; 
 There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherish'd ; 
 Gods love the j'oung who ascend pure from the funeral 
 pile. 
 
 Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious liver ; 
 
 Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, rolling sea ; 
 But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted for ever ; 
 
 There shall assemble the good, there the A\ise, valiant, 
 and free. 
 
 ! then, how great for our country to die, in the front 
 rank to perish, 
 Pirm with our breast to the foe, Yictory's shout in our 
 ear ! 
 Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory 
 cherish ; 
 We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet 
 music to hear. 
 
JAMES GATES PEECIVAL. 41 
 
 TBE CORAL GROVE. 
 
 Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 
 
 Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove ; 
 
 Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, 
 
 That never are wet with falling dew. 
 
 But in bright and changeful beauty shine, 
 
 Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
 
 The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, 
 
 And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; 
 
 From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
 
 Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; 
 
 The water is calm and still below. 
 
 For the winds and waves are absent there. 
 
 And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 
 
 In the motionless fields of upper air : 
 
 There, with its waving blade of green. 
 
 The sea-flag streams through the silent water. 
 
 And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
 
 To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter ; 
 
 There, with a light and easy motion. 
 
 The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea. 
 
 And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
 
 Are bending like com on the upland lea ; 
 
 And life, in rare and beautiful forms. 
 
 Is sporting amid those bowers of stone. 
 
 And is safe, w^hen the wrathful spirit of storms 
 
 Has made the top of the wave his own. 
 
 And when the ship from his fury flies, 
 
 Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
 
 When the wind-god frowns in the murky sties, 
 
 And demons are waiting the wreck on shore, — 
 
 Then, far below, in the peaceful sea. 
 
 The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
 
 Where the waters murmur tranquilly. 
 
 Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 
 
42 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 MAKIA GOAVEN BEOOKS. 
 
 Born at Sledford, Mass: 1795— died 1845. 
 
 SOXG. 
 
 Day, in melting purple dying ! 
 
 Blossoms, all around me sighing ! 
 
 Fragrance, from the lilies straviug ! 
 
 Zephyr, -u-ith my ringlets playing ! 
 Ye but waken my distress, — 
 I am sick of loneliness. 
 
 Thou, to -vrhom I love to hearken. 
 Come, ere night around me darken ! 
 Though thy softness but deceive me, 
 Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee ! 
 
 Veil, if ill, thj- soul's intent ! 
 
 Let me think it innocent ! 
 
 Save thy toiling ! spare thy ti-easure ! 
 All I ask is friendship's pleasure. 
 Let the shining ore lie darkling ! 
 Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ! 
 
 Gifts and gold are naught to me ; 
 
 I would only look on thee. 
 
 Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling. 
 
 Ecstasy but in revealing ; 
 
 Paint to thee the deep sensation, 
 
 Eapture in participation, — 
 
 Yet but torture, if comprest 
 In a lone, unfriended breast. 
 
 Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me ! 
 
 Let these eyes again caress thee ! 
 
 Once in caution I could fly thee ; 
 
 Now I nothing could deny thee. 
 In a look if death there be, 
 Oome, and I will gaze on thee ! 
 
( 43 ) 
 JOHN GAEDNER CALKINS BRAINAED. 
 
 Born at New London, Conn : 179G — died 1S28. 
 
 THE TREE TOAD. 
 I AM a jolly tree toad, upon a chestnut tree ; 
 I chirp, because I know that the night was made for me ; 
 The young bat flies above me, the glow-worm shines below ; 
 And the owlet sits to hear me, and half forgets his woe. 
 
 I'm lighted by the fire-fly, in circles wheeling round ; 
 The caty-did is silent, and listens to the sound ; 
 The jack-o'-lantern leads the way-worn traveller astray. 
 To hear the tree toad's melody until the break of day. 
 
 The harvest moon hangs over me, and smiles upon the 
 
 streams ; 
 The lights dance upward from the north, and cheer me 
 
 vsdth their beams ; 
 The dew of heaven, it conies to me as sweet as beauty's 
 
 tear; 
 The stars themselves shoot down to see what music we 
 
 have here. 
 
 The -winds around me vrhisper to every flower that blows. 
 To droop their heads, call in their sweets, and every leaf 
 
 to close ; 
 The whip-poor-will sings to his mate the mellow melody : 
 But, "Hark, and hear the notes that flow from yonder 
 
 chestnut tree ! " 
 
 Ye caty-dids and whip-poor-wills ! come listen to me now : 
 I am a jolly tree toad upon a chestnut bough ; 
 I chirp because I know that the night was made for me, — 
 And I close my proposition with a Q. E. D. 
 
 THE NOSEGAY. 
 
 I'll pull a bunch of buds and flowers, 
 
 And tie a ribbon round them. 
 If you'll but think, in your lonely hours, 
 
 Of the sweet little girl that bound them. 
 
4I< POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 I'll cull the earliest tliat put forth, 
 And those that last the longest ; 
 
 And the hud, that boasts the faire.-t birth, 
 Shall cling to the stem that's strongest. 
 
 I've run about the garden walks. 
 And Beareh'd among the dew, Sir ; 
 
 These fragrant flowers, these tender stalks, 
 I've pluck'd them all for you. Sir ! 
 
 So here's j'our bunch of buds and flowers. 
 And here's the ribbon round them ; 
 
 And here, to cheer your sadden'd hours. 
 Is the sweet little a;irl that bound them. 
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 I SAW two clouds at morning. 
 
 Tinged with the rising sun. 
 And in the dawn they floated on, 
 
 And mingled into one : 
 I thought that morning cloud was blest. 
 It moved so sweetly to the west. 
 
 I saw two summer currents 
 
 Plow smoothly to their meeting. 
 And join their course with silent force, 
 
 In peace each other greeting : 
 Calm was their course through banks of green. 
 While dimpling eddies play'd between. 
 
 Such be your gentle motion. 
 
 Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 
 Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, 
 
 Float on in joy, to meet 
 A calmer sea, where storms shall cease, 
 A purer sky, where all is peace. 
 
JOHN GARDNER CALKINS BEAINARD. 45 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 The dead leaves strew the forest walk, 
 
 And wither'd are the ]")ale wild flowers ; 
 The frost haiiffs blackenina; on the stalk. 
 
 The dew-drops fall in frozen showers ; 
 
 Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers. 
 Gone summer's rich and mantling vines, 
 
 And autumn, with lier yellow hours, 
 On hill and plain no longer shines. 
 
 I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note. 
 
 That rose and swell'd from yonder tree, — 
 A gay bird, with too sweet a throat. 
 
 There perch'd, and raised her song for me. 
 
 The winter comes, and where is she ? 
 Away, — ^where summer wings will rove. 
 
 Where buds are fresh, and every tree 
 Is vocal with the notes of love. 
 
 Too mild the breath of southern sky, 
 
 Too fresh the flower that blushes there ; 
 The northern breeze that rustles by 
 
 Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair ; 
 
 No forest tree stands stripp'd and bare. 
 No stream beneath the ice is dead, 
 
 No mountain top, with sleety hair. 
 Bends o'er the snows its reverend head. 
 
 Go there, with all the birds, and seek 
 
 A happier clime, with livelier flight ; 
 Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek, 
 
 And leave me lonely -with the night ! 
 
 I'll gaze upon the cold north light, 
 And mark where all its glories shone, — 
 
 See — that it all is fair and bright, 
 Feel — that it all is cold and gone. 
 
46 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 EDWAED CO ATE PINKNEY. 
 
 Born in London 1802— died 1828. 
 
 A HEALTH. 
 
 I FILL tliis cup to one made up 
 
 Of loA'eliness alone, — 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon ; 
 To whom the better elements 
 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A form so fair, that, like the air, 
 
 'Tis less of earth than heaven. 
 
 Her every tone is music's own. 
 
 Like those of morning birds ; 
 And something more than melody 
 
 Dwells ever in her words ; 
 The coinage of her heart are they, 
 
 And from her lips each flows 
 As one may see the burden'd bee 
 
 Forth issue from the rose. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her. 
 
 The measures of her hours ; 
 Her feelings have the fragrancy, 
 
 The freshness of young flowers ; 
 And lovely passions, changing oft, 
 
 So fill her, she appears 
 The image of themselves by turns, — 
 
 The idol of past years ! 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace 
 
 A picture on the brain ; 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts 
 
 A sound must long remain ; 
 But memory, such as mine of her, 
 
 So very much endears, 
 When death is nigh my latest sigh 
 
 Will not be life's, but hers. 
 
ALBERT GORTON GREENE. 47 
 
 I fill tliis cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, — 
 A woiiian, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming i:)aragon. 
 Her health ! and would on earth there stood 
 
 Some more of such a frame, 
 That life might bo all poetry, 
 
 And weariness a name. 
 
 ALBEET GORTON GEEENB. 
 
 Born at Providence, Ehode Island, 1802— died 18G8. 
 
 OLD GRIMES. 
 
 Old Grimes is dead ! that good old man 
 
 We never shall see more : 
 He used to wear a long black coat. 
 
 All button'd down before. 
 
 His heart was open as the day. 
 
 His feelings all were true ; 
 His hair was some inclined to gray, — 
 
 He wore it in a queue. 
 
 Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 
 His breast with pity bum'd ; 
 
 The large, round head upon his cane 
 JFrom ivory was turn'd. 
 
 Kind words he ever had for all, 
 
 He knew no base design ; 
 His eyes were dark and rather small, 
 
 His nose was aquiline. 
 
 He lived at peace with all mankind. 
 
 In friendship he was true ; 
 His coat had pocket-holes behind. 
 
 His pantaloons were blue. 
 
 Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes 
 
 He pass'd securely o'er ; 
 And never wore a pair of boots 
 
 For thirty years or more. 
 
48 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 But good old Gp.urES is no-w at rest. 
 Nor fears Misfortune's frown ; 
 
 He wore a double-breasted vest, — 
 The stripes ran up and down. 
 
 He modest merit sought to find, 
 
 And pay it its desert ; 
 He bad no malice in his mind, 
 
 No ruffles on his shirt. 
 
 His neighbours he did not abuse, 
 
 Was sociable and gay ; 
 He wore large buckles on his shoes, 
 
 And changed them every day. 
 
 His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 
 He did not bring to view ; 
 
 Nor make a noise town-meeting days, 
 As many people do. 
 
 His worldly goods he never threw 
 In trust to Fortune's chances ; 
 
 But lived (as all his brothers do) 
 In easy circumstances. 
 
 Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares. 
 His peaceful .moments ran ; 
 
 And everybody said he was 
 A fine old gentleman. 
 
 EALPH WALDO EMEESON. 
 
 Bom at Boston, Mass : 1803. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Foe this present, hard 
 Is the fortune of the bard 
 
 Born out of time ; 
 All his accomplishment. 
 From nature's utmost treasure spent, 
 
 Booteth not him- 
 
RALPH WALDO EMEKSON. 49 
 
 When tlie pine tosses its cones 
 To the song of its waterfall tones, 
 He speeds to the woodland walks. 
 To birds and trees he talks : 
 Caesar of his leafy Eome, 
 Where the poet is at home. 
 He goes to the river side, — 
 
 Not hook nor line hath he : 
 He stands in the meadows wide, — 
 
 Nor gun nor sej'the to see. 
 With none has he to do. 
 
 And none seek him. 
 Nor men below, 
 
 Nor spirits dim. 
 What he knows nobody wants : 
 What he knows, he hides, not vaunts. 
 Knowledge this man prizes best 
 Seems fantastic to the rest ; 
 Pondering shadows, colours, clouds. 
 Grass buds, and caterpillars' shrouds. 
 Boughs on which the wild bees settle. 
 Tints that spot the violet's petal. 
 Why nature loves the number five. 
 
 And why the star-form she repeats ; — 
 Lover of all things alive, 
 
 Wonderer at all he meets, 
 Wonderer chiefly at himself, — 
 
 Who can tell him what he is ; 
 Or how meet in human elf 
 
 Coming and past eternities ! . . . . 
 And such I knew, a forest seer, 
 A minstrel of the natural year, 
 Foreteller of the vernal ides, 
 Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, 
 A lover true, w^ho knew by heart 
 Each joy the mountain dales impart ; 
 It seem'd that nature could not raise 
 A plant in any secret place. 
 In quaking bog, on snowy hill. 
 Beneath the grass that shades the rill, 
 
 E 
 
50 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 T'ndor the snow, between the rocks. 
 
 In damp fields known to bird and fox, 
 
 But he would come in the very hour 
 
 It open'd in its virgin bower, 
 
 As if a sunbeam show'd the place. 
 
 And tell its loug-desccnded race. 
 
 It seeni'd as if the breezes brought him. 
 
 It seem'd as if the sparrows taught him, 
 
 As if by secret sight he knew 
 
 Where in far fields the orchis grew. 
 
 There are many events in the field. 
 
 Which are not sho^vn to common eyes, 
 But all her shows did nature yield 
 
 To please and win this pilgrim wise. 
 He saw the partridge drum in the woods. 
 
 He heard the woodcock's evening hjunn, 
 He found the tawny thrush's broods. 
 
 And the shy hawk did wait for him. 
 What others did at distance hear. 
 
 And guess'd within the thicket's gloom, 
 Was show'd to this philosopher. 
 
 And at his bidding seem'd to come. 
 
 TO THE EU3IBLE BEE. 
 
 Fine humble bee ! fine humble bee ! 
 Where thou art is clime for me ; 
 Let them sail for Porto Eique, 
 F^r-off heats through seas to seek, — 
 I will follow thee alone. 
 Thou animated torrid zone ! 
 Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer, 
 Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
 Singing over shrubs and vines. 
 
 Flower-bells, 
 
 Honey'd cells, — 
 
 These the tents 
 
 Which he frequents. 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 51 
 
 Insect lover of the sun ! 
 Joy of thy dominion ! 
 Sailor of tlie atmosphere ! 
 Swimmer through the w.aves 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 -ndnd, in May dayi^, 
 With a net of shining haze 
 Silvers the horizon wall ; 
 And, with softness touching all, 
 Tints the human countenance 
 With a colour of romance. 
 And infusing subtle heats 
 Turns the sod to violets, — 
 Thou in sunny solitudes, 
 Eover of the underwoods ! 
 The green silence dost displace 
 With thy mellow breezy bass. 
 
 Hot Midsummer's petted crone ! 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone. 
 Telling of countless sunny hours, 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound. 
 In Indian -CTdldemesses found ; 
 Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
 Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 
 
 Aught unsavoury or unclean 
 Hath my insect never seen ; 
 But violets, and bilberry bells, 
 Maple sap, and daffodels. 
 Clover, catehfly, adder's tongue, 
 And brier-roses, dwelt among : 
 All beside was unknown waste, 
 All vras picture as he pass'd. 
 
POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Wiser far than, human seer, 
 Ycllow-breech'd 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 north-western 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. 
 
 BOSTON HYMN. 
 
 The word of the Lord by night 
 To the watching Pilgrims came, 
 
 As they sat by the seaside. 
 
 And fiil'd their hearts with flame. 
 
 God said, — I am tired of kings, 
 
 I suffer them no more ; 
 Up to my ear the morning brings 
 
 The outrage of the poor. 
 
 Think ye 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 ; 
 
EALPH WALDO EMEHSON. 53 
 
 I show Columbia, of tlie rocks 
 
 Whidi 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 sea. 
 And make just laws below the sun, 
 
 As planets faithful be. 
 
 And ye shall succour men^ 
 
 'Tis nobleness to serve ; 
 Help them who can not help again : 
 
 Beware from right to swerve. 
 
 I break your bonds and masterships, 
 And I unchain the slave : 
 
5-i POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Free be his heart and hand henceforth 
 As wind and wandering wave. 
 
 I cause from every creature 
 
 His jiropor good to flow : 
 As much as he is and doeth, 
 
 So much he shall bestow. 
 
 But, laying hands on another 
 To coin his labour and sweat, 
 
 He goes in pawn to his victim 
 Tor 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 ! 
 
 North ! give him beauty for rags. 
 And honour, 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 wiU fulfiU'd shall be. 
 For, in daylight or in dark. 
 
 My thunderbolt has eyes to see 
 His way home to the mark. 
 
IL\.LPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 SONG OF NATUIiE. 
 
 Mine are tlie niglit and morning, 
 The pits of air, the gulf of space, 
 
 The sportive sun, the gibbous moon, 
 The innumerable daj's. 
 
 I liide in the solar glory, 
 
 I am dumb in the pealing song, 
 
 I rest on the pitcli of the torrent, 
 lu slumber I am strong. 
 
 No numbers have counted my tallies, 
 No tribes rtiy house can fill, 
 
 I sit bj' the shining Fount of Life, 
 And pour the deluge still ; 
 
 And ever by delicate powers 
 Gathering along the centuries 
 
 From race on. race the rarest flowers, 
 My wreath shall nothing miss. 
 
 And many a thousand summers 
 
 Mj^ apples ripen'd well ; 
 And light from meliorating stars 
 
 With firmer glory fell. 
 
 I wrote the past in characters 
 Of rock and fire the scroll, — 
 
 The building in the coral sea, 
 The planting of the coal. 
 
 And thefts from satellites and rings 
 
 And broken stars I drew ; 
 And out of spent and aged things 
 
 I form'd the world anew ; 
 
 What time the gods kept carnival, 
 Trick'd out in star and flower. 
 
 And in cramp elf and saurian forms 
 They swathed their too much power. 
 
5G POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Time and Thought were my surveyors, — 
 
 They laid their courses well, 
 They boil'd the sea, and baked the laj^ers 
 
 Of granite, marl, and shell. 
 
 But he, the man-child glorious, — 
 
 Where tarries he the while ? 
 The rainbow shines his harbinger. 
 
 The sunset gleams his smile. 
 
 My boreal lights leap upward, 
 
 Forthright mj' planets roll. 
 And still the man-child is not born, 
 
 The summit of the whole. 
 
 Must time and tide forever run ? 
 
 Will never my winds go sleep in the west? 
 Will never my wheels which whirl the sun 
 
 And satellites have rest ? 
 
 Too much of donning and doffing, 
 
 Too slow the rainbow fades, 
 I weary of mj' robe of snow, 
 
 My leaves and my cascades ; 
 
 I tire of globes and races. 
 
 Too long the game is play'd ; 
 What without him is summer's pomp, 
 
 Or winter's frozen shade ? 
 
 I travail in pain for him. 
 
 My creatures travail and wait ; 
 
 His couriers come by squadrons, 
 He comes not to the gate. 
 
 Twice I have moulded an image, 
 And thrice outstretch'd my hand, 
 
 Made one of day, and one of night, 
 And one of the salt sea-sand. 
 
 One in a Judsean manger, 
 
 And one by Avon stream, 
 One over against the mouths of Nile, 
 
 And one in the Academe. 
 
EALPH WALDO EMERSON. 57 
 
 I moulded Icings and saviours. 
 
 And bards o'er kings to rule ; — 
 But fell the starry influence sliort, 
 
 The cup was never full. 
 
 Yet whirl tlie glowing wheels once more, 
 
 And mix the bowl again ; 
 Seethe, Fate ! the ancient elements, 
 
 Heat, cold, wet, drj'', and peace, and pain. 
 
 Let war and trade and creeds and song 
 
 Blend, ripen race on race. 
 The sunburnt world a man shall breed 
 
 Of all the zones, and countless daj's. 
 
 No ray is dimm'd, no atom worn. 
 
 My oldest force is good as new, 
 And the fresh rose on j'onder thorn 
 
 Gives back the bending heavens in dew. 
 
 BBAEMA. 
 
 If the red slayer think he slays. 
 Or if the slain think he is slain. 
 
 They know not well the subtle ways 
 I keep, and pass, and turn again. 
 
 Far or forgot to me is near ; 
 
 Shadow and sunlight are the same ; 
 The vanish'd gods to me appear ; 
 
 And one to me are shame and fame. 
 
 They reckon ill who leave me out ; 
 
 "When me they fly, I am the wings ; 
 I am the doubter and the doubt. 
 
 And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. 
 
 The strong gods pine for my abode, 
 And pine in vain the sacred seven ; 
 
 But thou, meek lover of the good ! 
 
 Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. 
 
58 POETRY OF AIIEIUCA. 
 
 FRIENDSUIP. 
 
 A RUDDY drop of manljf blood 
 
 The surging sea out^oiglis, 
 Tlie world uncertain comes and goes, 
 
 The lover rooted stays. 
 I fancied he was fled, — 
 
 And, after manj- a j^ear, 
 Glow'd unexhausted kindliness. 
 
 Like daily sunrise there. 
 My careful heart -sras free again, 
 
 friend ! my bosom said, — 
 Through thee alone the skj- is arch'd. 
 
 Through thee the rose is red ; 
 All things through thee take nobler form. 
 
 And look beyond the earth, 
 The mill-round of our fate appears 
 
 A sun-path in thy worth. 
 Me too thj- nobleness has taught 
 
 To master mj^ despair ; 
 The fountains of my hidden life 
 
 Are through thj' friendship fair. 
 
 TO EVA. 
 
 Oh fair and stately maid, whose eyes 
 Were kindled in the upper skies 
 
 At the same torch that lighted mine ; 
 For so I must interpret still 
 Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, 
 
 A sympathy divine. 
 
 Ah, let me blameless gaze upon 
 Features that seem at heart my o-wai ; 
 
 Nor fear those watchful sentinels. 
 Who charm the more their glance forbids. 
 Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids. 
 
 With fire that draws while it repels. 
 
( 59 ) 
 CHAELES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 Born in New York City 1800. 
 
 TRE BOB 0' LINKUM. 
 
 Thod vocal sprite ! thou featlier'd troubadour ! 
 
 In pilgrim weeds tlirough many a clime a ranger, 
 Comest thou to dofif thy russet suit once more, 
 
 And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger? 
 Philosophers maj' teach thy whereabouts and nature ; 
 
 But, wise as all of us, perforce, must think 'cm. 
 The schoolboy best hath fix'd thy nomenclature. 
 
 And poets too must call thee Bob 0' Linkuni ! 
 
 Say ! art thou, long 'mid forest glooms benighted, 
 
 So glad to skim our laughing meadows over. 
 With our gay orchards here so much delighted. 
 
 It makes thee musical, thou airy rover? 
 Or are those buoj^ant notes the pilfer'd treasure 
 
 Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish 
 Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure, 
 
 And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish? 
 
 They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks ; 
 
 Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges, 
 And even in a brace of wandering weeks, 
 
 They say, alike thy song and plumage changes : 
 Here both are gay ; and when the buds put forth, 
 
 And leafy June is shading rock and river, 
 Thou art unmatch'd, blithe warbler of the north ! 
 
 When through the balmj^ air thy clear notes quiver. 
 
 Joyous, yet tender, was that gush of song 
 
 Caught from the brooks, where, 'mid its wildflowers 
 smiling. 
 The silent prairie listens all day long. 
 
 The only captive to such sweet beguiling ; 
 Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls 
 
 And column 'd aisles of western groves symphonious. 
 Learn from the tuneful woods rare madrigals, 
 
 To make our flowering pastures here harmonious ? 
 
GO POETEY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Cauglit'st thou tliy carol from Otawa maid, 
 
 Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plashing, 
 Brushing the ears from off the burden'd blade, 
 
 Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing ? 
 Or did the reeds of some savannah south 
 
 Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing. 
 To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth 
 
 The spioe-fed winds had taught them in their wooing ? 
 
 Unthrifty prodigal ! is thought of iU 
 
 Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever ? 
 Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still 
 
 Throb on in music till at rest forever ? 
 Yet, now iu wilder'd maze of concord floating, 
 
 'Twould seem that glorious hymning to prolong, 
 Old Time, in hearing thee, might fall a doting. 
 
 And pause to listen to thy rapturous song ! 
 
 TBE OBIGIN OF MINT JULEPS. 
 
 'Tis said that the gods, on Olympus of old 
 
 (And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt ?) 
 
 One night, 'mid their revels, by Bacchus were told 
 That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out ! 
 
 But, determined to send round the goblet once more, 
 They sued to the fairer immortals for aid 
 
 In composing a draught, which, till drinking w^ere o'er, 
 Should cast every wine ever drunk in the shade. 
 
 Grave Ceres herself blithely 3-ielded her com ; 
 
 And the spirit that lives in each amber-hued grain, 
 And which first had its birth in the dews of the mom, 
 
 Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops again. 
 
 Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board 
 Were scatter'd profusely in every one's reach, 
 
 When call'd on a tribute to cull from the hoard, 
 Express'd the mild juice of the delicate peach. 
 
WILLIAM GILMORE SI JIMS. 61 
 
 The liquids were mingled, while Venus look'd on, 
 With glances so fraught with sweet magical power, 
 
 That the honej' of Hybla, e'en when they were gone, 
 Has never been miss'd in the draught from that hour. 
 
 Floea then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook, 
 And with roseate fingers press'd down in the bowl, 
 
 All dripping and fresh, as it came from the brook. 
 The herb whose aroma should flaTOur the whole. 
 
 The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim, 
 Though something yet wanting they all did bewail ; 
 
 But juleps the drink of immortals became, 
 When Jove himself added a handful of hail. 
 
 TO A LADT BLUSHING. 
 
 Thb lilies faintly to the roses yield. 
 
 As on thy lovely cheek they stmggling vie, 
 
 (Who would not strive upon so sweet a field 
 To win the mastery ?) 
 
 And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes reveal'd, 
 
 Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unseal'd. 
 
 I could not wish that in thy bosom aught 
 
 Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken. 
 
 Yet can't regret that thou — forgive the thought ! — 
 As flowers when shaken 
 
 Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind, 
 
 Should'st, rufled thus, betray thy heavenly mind. 
 
 WILLIAM GILMOEE SIMMS. 
 Bom at Charleston, South Carolina, 1806 — died 1870. 
 
 THE LOST PLEIAD. 
 
 Not in the sky, 
 
 Where it was seen, 
 
 Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave. 
 
 Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep — 
 
G2 POETEY OF AJIEEICA. 
 
 Tliougli green 
 
 And beautiful its caves of mysterj' — 
 
 Shall the bright ^vatcher have 
 
 A place, and as of old high station keep. 
 
 Gone! gone! 
 
 Oh, never more to cheer 
 
 The mariner who holds his course alone 
 
 On the Atlantic, through the weary night. 
 
 When the stars turn to watchers and do sleep, 
 
 Shall it appear, 
 
 With the sweet fixedness of certain light, 
 
 Down-shining on the shut ej'^es of the deep. 
 
 Vain, vain ! 
 
 Hopeful most idly then, shall he look forth, 
 
 That mariner from his bark, — 
 
 Howe'er the north 
 
 Doth raise his certain lamp when tempests lower, — 
 
 He sees no more that perish'd light again! 
 
 And gloomier grows the hour 
 
 Which may not, through the thick and crowding dark, 
 
 Eestore that lost and loved one to her tower. 
 
 He looks, — the shepherd on Chaldea's hills. 
 
 Tending his flocks, — 
 
 And wonders the rich beacon doth not blaze. 
 
 Gladdening his gaze ; 
 
 And, from his dreary watch along the rooks. 
 
 Guiding him safely home through perilous ways. 
 
 How stands he in amaze. 
 
 Still wondering, as the drowsy silence fills 
 
 The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils 
 
 Its leaden dews, — how chafes he at the night. 
 
 Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light, 
 
 So natural to his sight I 
 
 And lone. 
 
 Where its first splendours shone, 
 
 Shall be that pleasant company of stars : 
 
 How should they know that death 
 
 Such perfect beauty mare ? 
 
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 63 
 
 And, like the earth., its common bloom and breath, 
 Fallen from on high, 
 
 'i'heir lights grow blasted by its touch, and die, 
 All their concerted springs ef harmony 
 Snapp'd rudely, and the generous music gone. 
 
 A strain, a mellow strain 
 
 Of wailing sweetness, fiU'd the earth and sky : 
 The stars lamenting in unborrow'd pain 
 That one of the selectest ones must die ; 
 Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest ! 
 Alas ! 'tis evermore the destiny, — ■ 
 The hope heart-cherish'd is the soonest lost ; 
 The flower first budded soonest feels the frost ; 
 Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest ? 
 And, like the pale star shooting down the sky, 
 Look they not ever brightest when they fly 
 The desolate home they bless'd ? 
 
 TSE PRAYEB OF THE LYRE. 
 
 How sweetly doth the night 
 
 Send forth her silvery light. 
 Sprinkling gay gleams along the slumbering sea ; 
 
 While gentle wings, that rise 
 
 In the far eastern skies. 
 Bring to the sense a sad, strange melody. 
 
 And silent is the crowd. 
 
 The voices, vex'd and loud, 
 That had been death to these sweet spells around, — 
 
 Oh ! let us seek yon beach. 
 
 Where, full of solemn speech, 
 The billows wake our thoughts to themes profound ! 
 
 Night is thought's minister, 
 
 And we, who rove with her. 
 
 Err not to seek her now in scene bo bright, — 
 
6i POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Scene that too soon departs, 
 Yet meet for gentle hearts. 
 And, like the truth they pledge, lovely in heaven's own 
 sight. 
 
 'Tv\'as in such hour as this, 
 
 When roused to heaven-wrought bliss. 
 The ancient bard's quick spirit smote the lyre ; 
 
 And, harmonizing earth. 
 
 Then music sprang to birth. 
 And claim'd, so sweet her form, a god to be her sire. 
 
 Then the wild man grew tame, 
 
 And from the hill-tops came 
 The shaggy-mantled shepherd -w^ith his flocks, — 
 
 And, as the minstrel sung. 
 
 Old fable found his tongue. 
 And raised a glittering form on all his rocks. 
 
 Is there no hope again, 
 
 For the high-chanted strain. 
 That stream'd in beauty then o'er mount and valley wide, — 
 
 "When, from each hill and dell, 
 
 Down-brought by minstrel spell. 
 Bounding, the Muses came, in joy, from every side, — 
 
 When, taught by spirits choice, 
 
 Each forest-thronging voice 
 Made music of its own for thousand listening ears ; 
 
 When every flower and leaf 
 
 Had its own joy and grief, 
 And wings ascending came from the less gifted spheres ? 
 
 Shall the time never more 
 
 The old sweet song restore. 
 That made the stem heart gentle, and to all — 
 
 The vicious and the good — 
 
 The kind of heart and rude — 
 Brought spells that vsTapp'd each soul in sweetest thrall ? 
 
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. G5 
 
 The sacred groves that then 
 
 Show'd spirit-forms to men, 
 And crown'd high hopes and led to each most lofty shrine, 
 
 The oracles that wore 
 
 Eich robes of mj'stic lore. 
 And taught, if not a faith, at least a song, divine : — 
 
 Still silent — v^ill they keep 
 
 In a cold, death-like sleep. 
 Nor minister to man, nor soothe him as of old, — 
 
 ^Vinning hira from his stj'e 
 
 To immortality. 
 Making each feeling true, making each virtue bold ? 
 
 Oh, -will they not descend, 
 
 Sweet spirits, to befriend. 
 Bring back the ancient muse, bring back the golden lyre, — 
 
 Teach us the holier good. 
 
 Of that more pliant mood. 
 When self untutor'd came to light affection's fire, — 
 
 When, yet untaught to build 
 
 In some more favour'd field 
 His cheerless cabin far from where the rest abode, 
 
 He had no thought so free 
 
 But his heart yeam'd to be 
 Bow'd down, with all his tribe, to each domestic god ? 
 
 Still keeps the sky as fair. 
 
 The pleasant moon is there, 
 And the winds whisper j-et, as if upon them borne 
 
 Spirits came still to earth, 
 
 Happy, as at its birth. 
 To rove its shadovry walks, now crowded and forlorn. 
 
 'Tis man alone is changed — 
 
 The shepherd — he who ranged 
 O'er the wild hills, a giant in the sun — 
 
 His soul and eye aloft. 
 
 His bosom strong, but soft. 
 With spirit, that fresh joy from each new season won. 
 
 F 
 
GG POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Look on him now — the slave! 
 
 Since that sad knowledge gave 
 The restless thirst tliat mocks at quiet good ; 
 
 Tlic innocent joy no more. 
 
 That the old forest wore, 
 Nor yet the charm of song, may soothe his sleepless mood. 
 
 Power's proud consciousness — 
 
 How should it ever bless, 
 When still it prompts a dark and sleepless strife ? 
 
 A sleepless sti'ifo to sway, 
 
 And bear that spoil away. 
 Had been the common stock in his old shepherd life. 
 
 Ah, me ! would time restore 
 
 The ancient faith, the lore 
 That taught sweet dreams, kind charities and love. 
 
 Soothing the spirit's pride. 
 
 Bidding the heart confide. 
 Lifting the hope until its eye grew fix'd above ! 
 
 Once, once again, the song 
 
 That stay'd the arm of wrong, — 
 Once more the sacred strain that charm'd the shepherds 
 rude, — 
 
 Send it, sweet spirits ! — ye 
 
 Who lift man's destiny ; — 
 Once more, oh, let it bless our solitude. 
 
 Teach us that strife is woe, 
 
 The love of lucre low, 
 And but high hopes and thoughts are worthy in our aim 
 
 Teach us that love alone, 
 
 Pure love, long heavenward flown. 
 Can bring us that sweet happiness we claim. 
 
 And with that sacred lore. 
 
 The shepherd loved, once more 
 Arouse the frolic beat of the hope-licensed heart, — 
 
 When, gathering in the gi'ove, 
 
 Young maidens sang of love. 
 And no cold bigot came to chide the minstrel's art. 
 
HENEY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. (u 
 
 Then were these teachers still : 
 
 This moon, yon quiet hill, 
 The sea, and more than all, the swelling breeze that 
 brings. 
 
 With every hour like this, 
 
 A dream of life and bliss, 
 With healing to the sad heart on its wings. 
 
 Then would the chanted strain 
 
 Of the old bard again 
 Bring cheerful thoughts once more around the evening 
 fire; 
 
 Then would the pure and young, 
 
 Such as the minstrel sung, 
 Once more rejoice to hear the young earth's infant lyre. 
 
 HENEY WADSWOETH LONGrELLOW. 
 
 Born at Portland, Maine, 1807. 
 
 TBE LIGHT OF STARS. 
 
 The night is come, but not too soon ; 
 
 And sinking silently. 
 All silently, the little moon 
 
 Drops dovrai behind the sky. 
 
 There is no light in earth or heaven, 
 But the cold light of stars ; 
 
 And the first watch of night is given 
 To the red planet Mars. 
 
 Is it the tender star of love ? 
 
 The star of love and dreams ? 
 no ! from that blue tent above, 
 
 A hero's armour gleams. 
 
 And earnest thoughts within me rise. 
 
 When I behold afar, 
 Suspended in the evening skies. 
 
 The shield of that red star. . 
 
68 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 star of strength ! I see tliee stand 
 And smile upon mj' pain ; 
 
 Tliou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
 And I am strong again. 
 
 Within my breast there is no light, 
 But the cold light of stars ; 
 
 1 give the first watch of the night 
 To the red planet Mars. 
 
 The star of the unoonquer'd will. 
 
 He rises in my breast. 
 Serene, and resolute, and still. 
 
 And calm, and self-possess'd. 
 
 And thoTi, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
 That readest this brief jJsalm, 
 
 As one by one thy hoj)es depart, 
 Be resolute and calm ! 
 
 fear not in a world like this. 
 And thou shalt know ere long, 
 
 Know how sublime a thing it is 
 To suffer and be strong. 
 
 TBE 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 lains, 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. 
 
HENET WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 69 
 
 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 daj'S must be dark and dreary. 
 
 THE QUADROON GIRL. 
 
 The Slaver in the broad lagoon 
 
 Lay moor'd with idle sail ; 
 He waited for the rising moon, 
 
 And for the evening gale. 
 
 Under the shore his boat was tied. 
 
 And all her listless crew 
 Watch'd the gray alligator slide 
 
 Into the still bayou. 
 
 Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, 
 Eeach'd them from time to time. 
 
 Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
 Upon a world of crime. 
 
 The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
 Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 
 
 The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, 
 He seem'd in haste to go. 
 
 He said — "My ship at anchor rides 
 
 In yonder broad lagoon ; 
 I only wait the evening tides. 
 
 And the rising of the moon.'' 
 
 Before them, with her face upraised. 
 
 In timid attitude. 
 Like one half curious, half amazed, 
 
 A Quadroon maiden stood. 
 
 Her eyes were large, and full of light. 
 Her arms and neck were bare ; 
 
 No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, 
 And her own long raven hair. 
 
rOETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 And on lior lips tliero play'd a smile 
 
 As holy, mock, and faint, 
 As lights in some cathedral aisle 
 
 The features of a saint. 
 
 ' The soil is barren, — the farm is old ; " 
 
 The thoughtful Planter said ; 
 Then look'd upon the Slaver's gold, 
 And then upon the maid. 
 
 His heart within him was at strife 
 
 With such accursed gains ; 
 For he knew whose passions gave her life. 
 
 Whose blood ran in her veins. 
 
 But the voice of nature was too weak ; 
 
 He took the glittering gold !' 
 Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek. 
 
 Her hands as icy cold. 
 
 The Slaver led her from the door, 
 
 He led her by the hand. 
 To be his slave and paramour 
 
 In a strauge and distant land ! 
 
 PAUL BEVEBE'S BIDE. 
 
 Listen, my children ! and you shall hear 
 
 Of the midnight ride of Paul Eevere, 
 
 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, 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 71 
 
 Readj"^ to rido and spread tlie alarm 
 Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
 For the coimtry-folk to be up and to arm." 
 
 Then he said good-night, and, with muffled oar, 
 
 Silently ro\v'd to the Charlestown shore, 
 
 Just as the moon rose over the baj^ 
 
 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 magniiied 
 
 Bj' 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 climb'd to the tower of the church. 
 Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread. 
 To the belfry-chamber overhead. 
 And started the pigeons from their perch 
 On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
 Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
 Up the light ladder, slender 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, 
 Wrapp'd in silence so deep and still. 
 That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 
 The watchful night-vdnd, as it went 
 Creeping along from^ tent to tent, 
 
iZ POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 And seeming to -whisper — " All is well ! " 
 A moment only lie feels the spell 
 Of the place and the hour, the secret dread 
 Of the lonely helfry and the dead ; 
 For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
 On a shadow-y sometliing 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 spurr'd, with a heavj' stride. 
 On the opposite shore walk'd Paul Eevere. 
 Now he patted his horse's side. 
 Now gazed on the landscape far and near. 
 Then impetuous stamp'd the earth, 
 And turn'd and tighten'd his saddle-girth ; 
 But mostly he watch'd ■«dth eager search 
 The belfty -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 belfrj^'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 that flies 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. 
 
 It was twelve by the village-clock, 
 
 When he cross'd the bridge into Medford town. 
 
 He heard the crowing of the cock, 
 
 And the barking of the farmer's dog, 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 7:3 
 
 Aud felt the damp of the river-fog, 
 That rises when tlie sun goes down. 
 
 It was one by the village-clock, 
 
 When he rode into Lexington. 
 
 He saw the gilded weathercock 
 
 Swim in the moonlight as he pass'd, 
 
 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 tlie 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, 
 
 ^Vho 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 Eevere ; 
 
 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 for evermore ! 
 
 For, borne on the night- wind of the past, 
 
 Through all our history, to the last, 
 
74 POETRY OF AJtERICA. 
 
 Ill the hour of darkness, and peril, and need, 
 llie pcoiile will waken and listen to hear 
 The hnrrjdng hoof-beat of that steed. 
 And the iniduio-ht message of Paul Eeverk. 
 
 TEE ARROW AND THE SONG. 
 
 T SHOT an arrow into the air ; 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
 For, so s-^\-iftlj' 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 aiTow, still unbroke ; 
 And the song, from beginning to end, 
 I found again in the heart of a friend. 
 
 SERENADE. 
 (_Frmn " 27^e Spanish Student.") 
 
 Stars of the summer night ! 
 
 Far in j^on azure deeps 
 Hide, hide your golden light ! 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 Moon of the summer night ! 
 
 Far down yon western steeps 
 Sink, sink in silver light ! 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. / ;) 
 
 Wind of the summer niglit ! 
 
 ^^'here yonder woodbine creeps 
 Fold, fold til J' pinions light ! 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 Dreams of the summer night ! 
 
 Tell her, her lover keej^s 
 Watch ! while in slumbers light 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 
 My ladjr sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps ! 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 Come to me, ye Children ! 
 
 For I hear j'ou at your play, 
 And the questions that perplex'd me 
 
 Have vanished quite away. 
 
 Ye open the eastern windows, 
 
 That look towards the sun. 
 Where thoughts are singing swallows, 
 
 And the brooks of morning run. 
 
 In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine. 
 In your thoughts the brooklet's flow ; 
 
 But in mine is the wind of Autumn, 
 And the first fall of the snow. 
 
 Ah ! what w^ould the w^orld be to us. 
 
 If the children were no more ? 
 We should dread the desert behind us 
 
 Worse than the dark before. 
 
 What the leaves are to the forest. 
 
 With light and air for food. 
 Ere their sweet and tender juices 
 
 Have been harden'd into wood, — 
 
POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 That to tlio world are cliildren ; 
 
 Througli tliem it feels the glow 
 Of a brighter and sunnier climate 
 
 Than reaches the trunks below. 
 
 Come to me, ye Children ! 
 
 And whisper in my ear 
 AVhat the birds and the winds are singing 
 
 In your sunny atmosphere. 
 
 For what are all our contrivings, 
 And the wisdom of our books, 
 
 When compared -with your caresses. 
 And the gladness of j'our looks ? 
 
 Ye are better than all the ballads 
 
 That ever were sung or said ; 
 For ye are living poems, 
 
 And all of the rest are dead. 
 
 CATAWBA WINE. 
 
 This song of mine 
 
 Is a Song of the Vine, 
 
 To be sung by the glowing embers 
 Of wayside inns, 
 When the rain begins 
 
 To darken the drear Novembers. 
 
 It is not a song 
 
 Of the Scuppernong, 
 From warm Carolinian valleys, 
 
 Nor the Isabel 
 
 And the Muscadel 
 That bask in our garden alleys. 
 
 Nor the red Mustang, 
 Whose clusters hang 
 O'er the waves of the Colorado, 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 7/ 
 
 And the fiery flood 
 Of whose purple blood 
 Has a dash of Sj)anish bravado. 
 
 For richest and best 
 
 Is the wine of the West, 
 That grows by the Beautiful Eiver, — 
 
 Whose sweet perfume 
 
 Fills all the room 
 With a benison on the giver. 
 
 And as hollow trees 
 
 Are the haunts of bees, 
 For ever going and coming ; 
 
 So this crj'stal hive 
 
 Is all alive 
 With a swarming and buzzing and humming. 
 
 Very good in its way 
 
 Is the Verzenay, 
 Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; 
 
 But Catawba wine 
 
 Has a taste more divine. 
 More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. 
 
 There grows no vine 
 
 By the haunted Rhine, 
 By Danube or Guadalquiver, 
 
 Nor on island or cape, 
 
 That bears such a grape 
 As grows by the Beautiful Eiver. 
 
 Drugg'd is their juice 
 
 For foreign use. 
 When shipp'd o'er the reeling Atlantic, 
 
 To rack our brains 
 
 With the fever pains 
 That have driven the Old World frantic. 
 
POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 To the sewers and sinks 
 
 With all such drinks, 
 And after them tumble the mixer ! 
 
 For a poison malign 
 
 Is such Borgia wine. 
 Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. 
 
 While pure as a spring 
 
 Is the wine I sing, 
 And to praise it, one needs but name it ; 
 
 For Catawba wine 
 
 Has need of no sign. 
 No tavern-bush to proclaim it. 
 
 And this Song of the Vine, 
 
 This greeting of mine. 
 The winds and the birds shall deliver 
 
 To the Queen of the West, 
 
 In her garlands dress'd, 
 On the banks of the Beautiful Eiver. 
 
 THE CUMBERLAND. 
 
 At anchor in Hampton Koads we lay, 
 
 On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; 
 And at times from the fortress across the bay 
 The alarum of drums swept past. 
 Or a bugle blast 
 From the camp on the shore. 
 
 Then far away to the south uprose 
 
 A little feather of snow-white smoke. 
 And w^e knew that the iron ship of our foes 
 Was steadily steering its course 
 To try the force 
 Of our ribs of oak. 
 
 DoAvn upon us heavily runs. 
 
 Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 79 
 
 Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
 
 And leaps the terrible death, 
 
 With fiery breath, 
 From each open port. 
 
 We are not idle, but send her straight 
 
 Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
 As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
 Eebounds our heavier hail 
 From each iron scale 
 Of the monster's hide. 
 
 " Strike j^our flag ! " — the rebel cries. 
 
 In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
 " Never ! ' — our gallant Morris replies ; 
 " It is better to sink than to yield ! " 
 And the v^hole air peal'd 
 With the cheers of our m.en. 
 
 Then, like a kraken huge and black, 
 
 She crush'd our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
 Down went the Cumberland all a wrack. 
 With a sudden shudder of death. 
 And the cannon's breath 
 For her dying gasp. 
 
 Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay. 
 
 Still floated our flag at the mainmasthead. 
 Lord, how beautiful was thy day ! 
 Every waft of the air 
 Was a whisper of prayer, 
 Or a dirge for the dead. 
 
 Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 
 
 Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. 
 Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, 
 Thy flag, that is rent in twain. 
 Shall be one again. 
 And without a seapi ! 
 
so POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 SNOW-FLAKES. 
 
 Out of the bosom of tlio Air, 
 
 Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 
 Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
 Over the harvest-fields forsaken. 
 Silent, and soft, and slow 
 Descends the snow. 
 
 Even as our cloudj' fancies take 
 
 Suddenly shape in some divine exprcsssion. 
 Even as the troubled heart doth make 
 In the white countenance confession. 
 The troubled sky reveals 
 The grief it feels. 
 
 This is the poem of the Air, 
 
 Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
 This is the secret of despair. 
 
 Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded. 
 Now whisper 'd and reveal'd 
 To wood and field. 
 
 EOBEET HINCKLEY MESSINGEE. 
 
 Bom 1S07. 
 GIVE ME THE OLD. 
 
 OLD WINE TO DBINK, OLD WOOD TO BURN, OLD BOOKS TO KEAD, 
 AND OLD FKIENDS TO CONVERSE WITH. 
 
 Old wine to drink ! 
 Ay, give the slippery juice 
 That drippeth from the grape thrown loose 
 
 Within the tun : 
 Pluck'd from beneath the cliff 
 Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, 
 And ripen'd 'neath the blink 
 
 Of India's sun ! 
 
 Peat whiskey hot, 
 Temper'd with well-boil'd water ! 
 
KOBERT HINCKLEY MESSINGER. 81 
 
 These make tlie long uiglit sliorter ; 
 
 Foi-g-ctting not 
 Good stout old English, porter. 
 
 Old wood to hum ! 
 Ay, bring the hill-side beech 
 From -where the owlets meet and screech, 
 
 And ravens croak ; 
 The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; 
 Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, 
 Dug 'neath the fern ; 
 
 The Ivnotted oak, 
 
 A faggot too, perhap. 
 Whose bright flame dancing, winking. 
 Shall light us at our drinking ; 
 
 "While the oozing sap 
 Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 
 
 Old books to read ! 
 Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 
 The brazen-clasp'd, the vellum-writ, 
 
 Time-honour'd tomes ! 
 The same my sire scann'd before, 
 The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 
 The same his sire from college bore : 
 The well-earn'd meed 
 Of Oxford's domes. 
 Old Homer blind. 
 Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 
 Old Tolly, Plaotds, Terence lie ; 
 Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie. 
 Quaint Burton, quainter Spensee, ay! 
 And Gervase Markhaji's venerie ; 
 
 Nor leave behind 
 The Holj'e Book by which we live and die. 
 
 Old friends to talk ! 
 Ay, bring those chosen few, 
 The wise, the courtly, and the true, 
 So rarely found : 
 
82 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Him for my wine, him for my stud, 
 Him for my easel, distich., bud 
 In mountain walk ! 
 
 Bring Walter good, 
 With soul-full Fred, and learned Will ; 
 And thee, mj' alter ego (dearer still 
 
 For every mood). 
 
 JOHN HOWAED BEYAXT. * 
 
 Born at Cummington, Mass : 1807. 
 
 TSE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 That soft autumnal time 
 Is come that sheds upon the naked scene 
 Charms only known in this our northern clime, — 
 
 Bright seasons, far between. 
 
 The woodland foliage now 
 Is gather'd by the wild November blast ; 
 E'en the thick leaves upon the poplar's bough 
 
 Are fallen, to the last. 
 
 The mighty vines, that round 
 The forest trxinks their slender branches bind. 
 Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground, 
 
 Swing naked in the wind. 
 
 Some living gi-een remains. 
 By the clear brook that shines along the lawn ; 
 But the sear grass stands white o'er all the plains, 
 
 And the bright flowers are gone. 
 
 But these, these are thy charms, — 
 Mild airs and temper'd light upon the lea ; 
 And the year holds no time within its arms 
 
 That doth resemble thee. 
 
 The sunny noon is thine. 
 Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night ; 
 And hues that in the flush'd horizon shine 
 
 At eve and early light. 
 
 * See Note 11. 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. So 
 
 Tlie year's last, loveliest smile, — 
 Thou comest to fill ■with hope the human heart. 
 And strengthen it to bear the storms awhile, 
 
 Till winter days depart. 
 
 O'er the wide plains, that lie 
 A desolate scene, the fires of autumn spread, 
 And nightly on the dark walls of the sky 
 
 A ruddy brightness shed. 
 
 Far in a shelter'd nook 
 I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower, 
 A lonely aster, trembling by a brook, 
 
 At the quiet noontide's hour. 
 
 And something told my mind. 
 That, should old age to childhood call me back, 
 Some sunny days and flowers I still might find 
 
 Along life's weary track. 
 
 NATHANIEL PAEEEE WILLIS. 
 
 Born at Portland, Maine, 1807 — died 1867. 
 
 TEE ANNOTEB. 
 
 Love knoweth every form of air, 
 
 And every shape of earth. 
 And comes nnbidden everywhere. 
 
 Like thought's mysterious birth. 
 The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 
 
 Are written with Love's words. 
 And you hear his voice unceasingly, 
 
 Like song in the time of birds. 
 
 He peeps into the warrior's heart 
 From the tip of a stooping plume. 
 
 And the serried spears, and the many men. 
 May not deny him room. 
 
 He'll come to his tent in the weary night, 
 And be busy in his dream, 
 
84 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 And he'll float to his ej^e in the morning light. 
 Like a fay on a silver beam. 
 
 He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, 
 
 And rides on the echo back, 
 And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, 
 
 And flits in his woodland track. 
 The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, 
 
 The cloud and the open sky, — 
 He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, 
 
 Like the light of your very eye. 
 
 The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 
 
 And ponders the silver sea. 
 For Love is under the surface hid. 
 
 And a spell of thought has he ; 
 He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, 
 
 And speaks in the ripj)le low. 
 Till the bait is gone from the crafty line. 
 
 And the hook hangs bare below. 
 
 He blurs the print of the scholar's book. 
 
 And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, 
 And profanes the cell of the holy man 
 
 In the shape of a lady fair. 
 Li the darkest night, and the bright daylight. 
 
 In earth, and sea, and sky. 
 In every home of human thought 
 
 Will Love be lurking nigh. 
 
 TWO WOMEN. 
 
 The shadows lay along Broadway, 
 'Twas near the twilight-tide. 
 
 And slowly there a lady fair 
 Was walking in her pride. 
 
 Alon^walk'd she ; but, viewlessly, 
 Walk'd spirits at her side. 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER AVILLIS. 85 
 
 Peace cliarm'd tlie street beneath, her feet. 
 
 And Honour charm'd the air ; 
 And all astir look'd kind on her. 
 
 And call'd her good as fair, — 
 For all God ever gave to her 
 
 She kept with chary care. 
 
 She kept with care her heauties rare 
 
 From lovers warm and true. 
 For her heart was cold to all but gold, 
 
 And the rich came not to woo, — 
 But honour'd well are charms to sell 
 
 If priests the selling do. 
 
 Now walking there was one more fair, — 
 
 A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
 And she had unseen company 
 
 To make the spirit quail, — 
 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, 
 
 And nothing could avail. 
 
 No mercy now can clear her brow 
 
 For this world's peace to pray ; 
 For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
 
 Her woman's heart gave way 1 — 
 But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 
 
 By man is cursed alway ! 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 I LOVE to look on a scene like this, 
 
 Of wild and careless plaj', 
 And persuade myself that I am not old. 
 
 And my locks are not yet gray ; 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. 
 
 And makes his pulses fly. 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
86 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 I have walk'd the world for fourscore years. 
 
 And they say that I am old — 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 
 
 And my years are well-nigh told. 
 It is very true — it is very true — 
 
 I am old, and I " bide my time ; " 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on ! play on ! I am with you there. 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump. 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 
 
 And I whoop the smother'd call. 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come. 
 
 And I shall be glad to go — 
 For the world, at best, is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heai-t from its dreariness 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
 JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIEE.* 
 
 Bom at Haverhill, Mass : 1S07. 
 
 SKIPPEB IMESON'S HIDE. 
 
 Of all the rides since the birth of time, 
 Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
 On Apuleius' Golden Ass, 
 Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass. 
 Witch astride of a human hack, 
 Islam's Prophet on Al-Borak, — 
 The strangest ride that ever was sped 
 * See Note 12. 
 
JOHX GREEXLEAF VVHITTIER. 87 
 
 Was Ireson's, out from Marbleliead ! 
 
 Old Floyd Ireson, for kis hard heart, 
 Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
 Body of turkey, head of owl, 
 
 Wings a-droop like a rain'd-on fowl, 
 
 Feather'd and ruffled in every part. 
 
 Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 
 
 Scores of women, old and young. 
 
 Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 
 
 Push'd and puU'd up the rocky lane. 
 
 Shouting and singing the slarill 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 ! " 
 
 Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 
 
 Girls in bloom of cheek and lips. 
 
 Wild-eyed, free-limb'd, 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 sail'd away 
 From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — 
 Sail'd away from a sinking wreck. 
 With his ovsTi town's-people on her deck ! 
 " Lay by ! lay by ! " — they call'd to him. 
 Back he answer'd — " Sink or swim ! 
 Brag of your catch of fish again ! " 
 And off he sail'd through the fog and rain ! 
 Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart 
 Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 * See Note 13. 
 
SS POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Fathoms deep in dark Cbaleiir 
 That, wreck shall lie for overmorc. 
 Mother and sister, wife and maid, 
 Look'd from the rocks of Marblchead 
 Over the moaning and rainj' sea, — 
 Look'd for the coming that might not he ! 
 AVhat did the winds and the sea-birds say 
 Of the crnel captain who sail'd away ? — 
 Old Floj'd Ireson, for his hard lieart 
 Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
 Through the street, on either side. 
 Up flew windows, doors swung ■\%'ide ; 
 Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray. 
 Treble lent the fish-horns' bray. 
 Sea-worn graudsires, cripple-bound. 
 Hulks of old sailors run aground, 
 Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane. 
 And crack'd with curses the hoarse 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 show'd. 
 Little the wicked skipper knew 
 Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 
 Eiding there in his sorry trim, 
 Like an Indian idol glum and grim. 
 Scarcely he seem'd 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, neighbours ! " 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 ? 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEE. 89 
 
 Waking or sleeping I see a wreck, 
 
 And liear a cry from a reeling deck ! 
 
 Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 
 
 Tke hand of God and the face of the dead ! " — 
 Said old Floj'd Ireson, for his hard heart 
 Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
 Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
 Said — "God has touch'd 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 
 Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
 SABCLAT OF UBT. 
 
 Up the streets of Aberdeen 
 By the kirk and college green, 
 
 Eode the Laird of Ury ; 
 Close behind him, close beside, 
 Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 
 
 Press'd the mob in fury. 
 
 Flouted him the drunken churl, 
 Jeer'd 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 pass'd 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. 
 
90 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Came a troop -with liroadsworcls swinging, 
 Bits and bridles sharplj' ringing. 
 
 Loose and free and froward ; 
 Qnoth tlio foremost — " Ride liim down ! 
 Pnsli him ! prick liini ! tlirongk 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, 
 
 Scarr'd and sunburn'd 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." 
 Marvel'd much that henchman bold. 
 That his laird, so stout of old, 
 
 Now so meekly pleaded. 
 
 " Woe's the day ! " — he sadlj' said, 
 With a slowly-shaking head, 
 
 And a look of pitj'^ ; — 
 " Ury's honest lord reviled, 
 Mock of knave and sport of child, 
 
 In his ovsm good city ! 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 91 
 
 " SjDcak the word, and, master mine ! 
 As we charged on Tilly's line 
 
 And his Walloon lancers. 
 Smiting througli 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 tlie 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, outlaw'd, held in thrall, 
 
 With few friends to greet me. 
 Than when reeve and squire were seen, 
 Eiding out from Aberdeen, 
 
 With bared heads to meet me. 
 
 " When each good wife, o'er and o'er, 
 Bless'd me as I pass'd 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 friends' faUing off, . 
 
 Hard to learn forgiving : 
 But the Lord His own rewards, 
 And His love with theirs accords, 
 
 Warm and fresh and living. 
 
POETEY OF AMERICA. 
 
 " 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 
 
 Towards the Tolbooth prison. 
 Where, through iron grates, he Heard 
 Poor disciples of the Word 
 
 Preach of Christ arisen ! 
 
 Xot 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 seven-fold vial. 
 
 Happy he whose inward ear 
 Angel conifortings can hear 
 
 O'er the rabble's laughter ; 
 And, "while Hatred's faggots bum, 
 Glimpses through the smoke discern 
 
 Of the good hereafter. 
 
 Knowing this, that never yet 
 Share of Truth was vainly set 
 
 In the w^orld's wide fallow ; 
 After hands shall sow the seed. 
 After hands from bill and mead 
 
 Eeap the harvests yellow. 
 
 Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, 
 Must the moral pioneer 
 
 From the Future borrow ; 
 Clothe the w^aste with dreams of grain. 
 And on midnight's sky of rain 
 
 Paint the golden morrow ! 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 93 
 
 THE MAYFLOWERS. 
 
 Tlie trailing arl)utus, or mayjlower, grows ahuTidajitly in the vicinity 
 of Plymouth, and was the first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after 
 their first fearful winter. 
 
 Sad Mayflower ! watcli'd \>y winter stars, 
 
 And nursed by winter gales, 
 Witli petals of the sleeted spars, 
 
 And leaves of frozen sails ! 
 
 "What had she in those dreary hours, 
 
 Within her ice-rimm'd bay, 
 In common with the wild-wood flowers. 
 
 The first sweet smiles of May ? 
 
 Tet — " God be praised ! " the Pilgrim said. 
 
 Who saw the blossoms peer 
 Above the brown leaves, dry and 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." 
 
 Oh ! sacred flowers of faith and hope ! 
 
 As sweetly now as then 
 Te 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 ! 
 
1)4 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day 
 
 Its shadow round us draws ; 
 The Mayflower of his stormy bay — 
 
 Our Freedom's strufforlino: cause. 
 
 But warmer suns ere long shall bring 
 
 To life the frozen sod : 
 And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring 
 
 Afresh the flowers of God ! 
 
 BVEIAL OF BAEBOUS.* 
 
 Bear him, comrades ! to his grave ; 
 Never over one more brave 
 
 Shall the prairie grasses weep, 
 In the ages yet to come. 
 When the millions in our room 
 
 What we sow in tears shall reap. 
 
 Bear him up the icy hill, 
 With the Kansas, frozen still 
 
 As his noble heart, below, — 
 And the land he came to till 
 With a freeman's thews and will. 
 
 And his poor hut roof d with snow ! 
 
 One more look of that dead face, 
 Of his murder's ghastly trace ! 
 
 One more kiss, oh, widow'd one ! 
 Lay your left hands on his brow, 
 Lift your right hands up, and vow- 
 That his work shall yet be done. 
 
 Patience, friends ! The eye of God 
 Every path by Murder trod 
 
 Watches, lidless, day and night ; 
 And the dead man in his shroud. 
 And his widow weeping loud. 
 
 And our hearts, are in his sight. 
 * See Note 14. 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEE. 95 
 
 Every deadly threat that swells 
 With, the roar of gambling hells, 
 
 Everj' brutal jest and jeer, 
 Ever}' wicked thought and plan 
 Of the cruel heart of man. 
 
 Though but whisjier'd, He can hear ! 
 
 We in suffering, they in crime, 
 Wait the just award of time, 
 
 Wait the vengeance that is due ; 
 Not in vain a heart shall break. 
 Not a tear for Freedom's sake 
 
 Falls unheeded : God is true. 
 
 While the flag with stars bedeck'd 
 Threatens where it should protect, 
 
 And while Law shakes hands with Crime, 
 What is left us but to wait. 
 Match our patience to our fate. 
 
 And abide the better time ? 
 
 Patience, friends ! the human heart 
 Everywhere shall take our part. 
 
 Everywhere for us shall pray ; 
 On our side are Nature's laws, 
 And God's life is in the cause 
 
 That we suffer for to-day. 
 
 Well to suffer is divine ; 
 
 Pass the vratchword down the line, 
 
 Pass the countersign : " Endure ! " 
 Not to him who rashly dares, 
 But to him who nobly bears. 
 
 Is the victor's garland sure. 
 
 Frozen earth to frozen breast, 
 Lay our slain one down to rest. 
 
 Lay him down in hope and faith ; 
 And above the broken sod. 
 Once again, to Freedom's God, 
 
 Pledge ourselves for life or death : 
 
9C POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 That tlie State whose walls wo lay, 
 In our blood and tears, to-day, 
 
 Shall be free from bonds of shame ; 
 And our goodly land untrod 
 By the feet of Slavery — shod 
 
 With cursing as with flame ! 
 
 Plant the Buckeye on his grave, 
 For the hunter of the slave 
 
 In its shadow can not rest ; 
 And let martyr mound and tree 
 Be our pledge and guarantee 
 
 Of the freedom of the West ! 
 
 SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. 
 
 O, praise an' tanks ! De Lord He come 
 
 To set de people free ; 
 An' massa tink it day ob doom, 
 
 An' we ob jubilee. 
 De Lord dat heap de Eed-Sea waves 
 
 He jus' as 'trong as den ; 
 He say de word : we las' night slaves ; 
 To-day, de Lord's freemen. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 We'll hab de rice an' com ; 
 nebber you fear, if nebber yon hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
 Ole massa on he trabbels gone ; 
 
 He leaf de land behind : 
 De Lord's breff blow him furder on, 
 
 Like corn-shuck in de wind. 
 We own de hoe, we own de plough, 
 
 We own de hands dat hold ; 
 We sell de pig, we sell de cow, 
 But nebber chile be sold. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 We'll hab de rice an' com : 
 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
JOHX GEEENLEAF WHITTIER. 97 
 
 We pray de Lord : He gib us signs 
 
 Dat some day we be free ; 
 De Norf-wind tell it to de pines, 
 
 De wild-duck to de sea ; 
 We tink it when de cburcli-bell ring, 
 
 We dream it in de dream ; 
 De rice-bird mean it wben he sing, 
 De eagle when he scream. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 AVe'll hab de rice an' corn : 
 nebber you fear, if uebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
 We know de promise nebber fail. 
 
 An' nebber lie de word ; 
 So like de 'postles in de jail, 
 
 We waited for de Lord : 
 An' now He open ebery door, 
 
 An' trow away de key ; 
 He tink we lub Him so before. 
 We lub Him better free. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 He'll gib de rice an' com : 
 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
 BAMBABA FBIETCHIE. 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with com, 
 Clear in the cool September mom, 
 
 The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand, 
 Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. 
 
 Eound about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 
 
 Pair as a garden of the Lord, 
 
 To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde, 
 
 H 
 
!)8 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 On that pleasant mom of tlio early Fall, 
 Wiien Lee march'd over the mountain wall, 
 
 Over tlie mountains winding down, 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags witli tlieir silver stars, 
 Forty flags with, their crimson Lars, 
 
 Flapp'd in the morning wind : the sun 
 Of noon look'd down, and saw not one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
 Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town. 
 
 She took up the flag the men haul'd down. 
 
 In her attic-window the staff she set, 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouch'd hat left and right 
 He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 
 
 " Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; 
 " Fire ! " — out blazed the rifle-blast. 
 
 It shiver'd the window-pane and sash. 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell from the broken staff. 
 Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf. 
 
 She lean'd far out on the window-sill. 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head. 
 But spare your country's flag ! " — she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirr'd 
 To life at that woman's deed and word. 
 
JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER. 99 
 
 " Wio touclies a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog ! March on ! " — he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 
 
 All day long that free flag toss'd 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 
 
 And through the hill-gaps, sunset light 
 Shone over it with a warm good-night. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. 
 
 And the rebel ride« on his raids no more. 
 
 Honour to her ! and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
 Flag of Freedom and Union ! wave ! 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Bound thy symbol of light and law ; 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 
 
 ICSABOD. 
 
 So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 
 
 Which once he wore ! 
 The glory from his gray hairs gone 
 
 For evermore ! 
 
 Eevile him not ! — the Tempter hath 
 
 A snare for all ; 
 And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 
 
 Befit his faU. 
 
 ! dumb he passion's stormy rage. 
 When he who might 
 
100 POETEY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Have lighted up and led his age, 
 Falls back in niglit ! 
 
 Scorn ! Would the angels laugh, to mark 
 
 A bright soul driven, 
 Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 
 
 From hope and heaven ? 
 
 Let not the land, once proud of him. 
 
 Insult him now ; 
 Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 
 
 Dishonour'd brow ! 
 
 But let its humbled sons, instead. 
 
 From sea to lake, 
 A long lament, as for the dead. 
 
 In sadness make ! 
 
 Of all we loved and honour'd, nought 
 
 Save power remains, — 
 A fallen angel's pride of thought. 
 
 Still strong in chains. 
 
 All else is gone ; from those great eyes 
 
 The soul has fled : 
 When faith is lost, when honour dies, 
 
 The man is dead ! 
 
 Then, pay the reverence of old days 
 
 To his dead fame"; 
 Walk backward, with averted gaze. 
 
 And hide the shame ! 
 
 TELLING TSE BEES* 
 
 Here is the place ; right over the hill 
 
 Euns the path I took ; 
 You can see the gap in the old wall still, 
 
 And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. 
 * See Note 15. 
 
JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER. 101 
 
 There is the house, with the gate red-barr'd, 
 
 And the poplars tall ; 
 And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-j'ard. 
 
 And the white horns tossing above the wall. 
 
 There are the beehives ranged in the sun ; 
 
 And down by the brink 
 Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'er-run, 
 
 Pansy and daSbdil, rose and pink. 
 
 A year has gone, as the tortoise goes. 
 
 Heavy and slow ; 
 And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, 
 
 And the same brook sings, of a year ago. 
 
 There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze ; 
 
 And the June sun warm 
 Tangles his wings of fire in the trees. 
 
 Setting, as then, over Pemside Farm. 
 
 I mind me how with a lover's care 
 
 From my Sunday coat 
 I brush'd off the burrs, and smooth'd my hair, 
 
 And cool'd at the brookside my brow and throat. 
 
 Since we parted, a month had pass'd, — 
 
 To love, a year ; 
 Dovm through the beeches I look'd at last 
 
 On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. 
 
 I can see it all novsr, — the slantwise rain 
 
 Of light through the leaves. 
 The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, 
 
 The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 
 
 Just the same as a month before, — 
 
 The house and the trees. 
 The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, — 
 
 Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 
 
 Before them, under the garden wall, 
 Forward and back, 
 
102 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 Went drearily singing the chore-girl small. 
 Draping each hive with a shred of black. 
 
 Trembling, I listen'd : the summer sun 
 
 Had the chill of snow ; 
 For I knew she was telling the bees of one 
 
 Gone on the journey we all must go ! 
 
 Then I said to myself — " My Mary weeps 
 
 For the dead to-day : 
 Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps 
 
 The fret and the pain of his age away." 
 
 But her dog whined low ; on the doorway sill. 
 
 With his cane to his chin, 
 The old man sat ; and the chore-girl still 
 
 Sang to the bees stealing out and in. 
 
 And the song she was singing ever since 
 
 In my ear sounds on : — 
 " Stay at home, pretty bees ! fly not hence : 
 
 Mistress Mary is dead and gone ! " 
 
 THE B.IVER PATH. 
 
 No bird-song floated down the hill, 
 The tangled bank below was still ; 
 
 No rustle from the birchen stem, 
 No ripple from the water's hem. 
 
 The dusk of twilight round us grew, 
 We felt the falling of the dew ; 
 
 For from us, ere the day was done. 
 The wooded hills shut out the sun. 
 
 But on the river's farther side 
 We saw the hiU-tops glorified, — 
 
 A tender glow, exceeding fair, 
 A dream of day without its glare. 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 103 
 
 With US the damp, the chill, the gloom : 
 With them, the sunset's rosy bloom ; 
 
 While dark, through willowy vistas seen. 
 The river roU'd in shade between. 
 
 Prom out the darkness where we trod. 
 We gazed upon those hills of God, 
 
 Whose light seem'd not of moon or sun. 
 We spake not, but our thought was one. 
 
 We paused, as if from that bright shore 
 Beckon'd our dear ones gone before ; 
 
 And stO-l'd our beating hearts to hear 
 The voices lost to mortal ear. 
 
 Sudden our pathway tTim'd from night ; 
 The hills swung open to the light ; 
 
 Through their green gates the sunshine show'd, 
 A long slant splendour downward flow'd. 
 
 Down glade and glen and bank it roll'd ; 
 It bridged the shaded stream with gold ; 
 
 And, borne on piers of mist, allied 
 The shadowy with the sunlit side. 
 
 " So " — ^pray'd we — " when our feet draw near 
 The river dark, with mortal fear, 
 
 " And the night cometh chill with dew, 
 O Pather ! let thy light break through ! 
 
 " So let the hills of doubt divide. 
 
 So bridge with faith the sunless tide ! 
 
 " So let the eyes that fail on earth 
 On thy eternal hills look forth ; 
 
 " And in thy beckoning angels know 
 The dear ones whom we loved below ! " 
 
104 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 Still sits the sctool-house by the road — 
 A ragged beggar sunning : 
 
 Around it still the sumachs grow, 
 And blackberry-vines are running. 
 
 Witliin, the master's desk is seen, 
 Deep scarr'd by raps official ; 
 
 The warping floor, the batter'd seats, 
 The jack-knife's carved initial ; 
 
 The charcoal frescoes on its wall ; 
 
 Its door's worn sill, betraying 
 The feet that, creeping slow to school, 
 
 Went storming out to playing ! 
 
 It touch'd the tangled golden curls. 
 And brown eyes full of grieving, 
 
 Of one who still her steps delay'd 
 When all the school were leaving. 
 
 For near her stood the little boy 
 Her childish favour singled ; 
 
 His cap pull'd low upon a face 
 
 Where pride and shame were mingled. 
 
 Pushing with restless feet the snow 
 To right and left, he linger'd, 
 
 As restlessly her tiny hands 
 The blue-check'd apron finger'd. 
 
 He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 
 The soft hand's light caressing ; 
 
 And heard the tremble of her voice. 
 As if a fault confessing. 
 
 " I'm sorry that I spelt the word : 
 
 I hate to go above you. 
 Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — 
 
 " Because, you see, I love you. 
 
WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 105 
 
 Long years ago a winter sun 
 
 Shone over it at setting ; 
 Lit up its western window-panes, 
 
 And low eaves' icy fretting. 
 
 Still memory to a gray-hair'd man 
 Tkat sweet child-face is showing, 
 
 Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
 Have forty years been growing ! 
 
 He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
 
 How few who pass above him 
 Lament their triumph and his loss. 
 
 Like her, — ^because they love him. 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHEE. 
 
 Bom at PMladelphia 1808. 
 
 AXJGVST. 
 
 Dust on thy mantle ! dust. 
 Bright Summer ! on thy livery of green. 
 
 A tarnish, as of rust. 
 
 Dims thy late-brilliant sheen ; 
 And thy young glories, — leaf, and bud, and liower,- 
 Change cometh over them with every hour. 
 
 Thee hath the August sun 
 Look'd on with hot and fierce and brassy face ; 
 And still and lazily run, 
 Scarce whispering in their pace. 
 The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent 
 A shout of gladness up as on they went. 
 
 Flame-like the long mid-day ! 
 With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd 
 
 The down upon the spray 
 
 Where rests the panting bird, 
 Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, 
 With fitful tvsritter, sadly out of tune. 
 
106 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Seeds in the sultry air, 
 And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees ; 
 E'en the tall pines, that rear 
 Tlicir plumes to catch the breeze — 
 The slightest breeze from the unfreshciiing west — 
 Partake the general languor and deep rest. 
 
 Happy, as man may be, 
 Stretch'd on his back, in homely bean-vine bower. 
 
 While the voluptuous bee 
 
 Bobs each surrounding flower, 
 And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast, — 
 The husbandman enjoj^s his noonday rest. 
 
 Against the hazj' sky 
 The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest ; 
 
 Beneath them far, yet high 
 
 In the dim distant west. 
 The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare, 
 Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air. 
 
 Soberly, in the shade, 
 Kepose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox, — 
 
 Or in the shoal stream vrade, 
 
 Shelter'd by jutting rocks ; 
 The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush 
 Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush. 
 
 Tediously pass the hours ; 
 And vegetation wrilts, vrith blister'd root, 
 And droop the thirsting flowers. 
 Where the slant sunbeams shoot : 
 But of each tall old tree the lengthening line. 
 Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline. 
 
 Faster along the plain 
 Moves now the shade, and on the meadows' edge : 
 
 The kine are forth again, 
 
 The bird flits in the hedge. 
 Now in the molten v^est sinks the hot sun. 
 Welcome, mild eve ! — the sultry day is done. 
 
OLIVER WEXDELL HOLMES. 107 
 
 Pleasantly comest thou, 
 Dew of the evening ! to the crisp'd-up grass ; 
 
 And the curl'd corn-blades bow, 
 
 As the light breezes pass. 
 That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand. 
 Thou sweet reviver of the fever'd land ! 
 
 So, to the thirsting soul, 
 Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love ; 
 
 And the scathed heart, made whole, 
 
 Turneth in joy above. 
 To where the spirit freely may expand. 
 And rove, untrammel'd, in that "better land." 
 
 OLIVEE WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 Bom at Cambridge, Mass : 1809. 
 
 DOSOTSY Q. 
 
 {A Family Portrait.) 
 
 Geandmother's mother ! her age, I guess. 
 Thirteen summers, or something less ; 
 Girlish bust, but womanly air. 
 Smooth, square forehead, with uproll'd hair, 
 Lips that lover has never kiss'd, 
 Taper fingers and slender wrist. 
 Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade, — 
 So they painted the little maid. 
 
 On her hand a parrot green 
 
 Sits unmoving and broods serene ; 
 
 Hold up the canvas full in view ! 
 
 Look ! there's a rent the light shines through, 
 
 Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — 
 
 That was a Eed-Goat's rapier-thrust ! 
 
 Such is the tale the lady old — 
 
 Dorothy's daughter's daughter — ^told. 
 
108 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Who tlie painter was none may tell, — 
 One whose, best was not over well ; 
 Hard and dry, it must be confess'd. 
 Flat as a rose that has long been press'd ; 
 Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
 Dainty colours of red and white ; 
 And in her slender shape are seen 
 Hint and promise of stately mien. 
 
 Look not on her with eyes of scorn ! 
 Dorothy Q. was a lady bom ! 
 Ay ! since the galloping Normans came, 
 England's annals have known her name : 
 And still to the three-hill'd rebel town 
 Dear is that ancient name's renown, 
 For many a civic wreath they own, 
 The youthful sire and the gi-aybair'd son. 
 
 damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! 
 Strange is the gift that I owe to you ; 
 Such a gift as never a king 
 Save to daughter or son might bring ; 
 All my tenure of heart and hand, 
 All my title to house and land. 
 Mother and sister, and child and wife, 
 And joy and sorrow, and death and life. 
 
 What if a hundred years ago 
 
 Those close-shut lips had answered — No ! 
 
 When forth the tremulous question came 
 
 That cost the maiden her Norman name ; 
 
 And under the folds that look so still 
 
 The bodice swell'd with the bosom's thrill ? 
 
 Should I be I, or would it be 
 
 One- tenth another to nine-tenths me? 
 
 Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : 
 Not the light gossamer stirs with less ; 
 But never a cable that holds so fast 
 Through all the battles of wave and blast, 
 And never an echo of speech or song 
 That lives in the babbling air so long ! 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 109 
 
 There were tones in the voice that whisper'd then 
 You may hear to-day in a hundred men ! 
 
 lady and lover ! how faint and far 
 Your images hover, and here we are, 
 Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
 Edwards and Dorothys — all their own — • 
 A goodly record for time to show 
 
 Of a syllable spoken so long ago ! — 
 Shall I bless j'ou, Dorothy ! or forgive, 
 For the tender whisper that bade me live ? 
 
 It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 
 
 1 will heal the stab of the Eed-Coat's blade, 
 And freshen the gold of the tarnish'd frame. 
 And gild with a rhyme your household name ; 
 So you shall smile on us brave and bright 
 
 As first you greeted the morning's light. 
 And live untroubled by woes and fears 
 Through a seoond youth of a hundred years. 
 
 THE DEACOtT'S MASTEEPIECE: 
 
 OR THE WONDERFUL " ONE-HOSS SHAY." 
 
 (A Logical Story.} 
 
 Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
 That was built in such a logical V7ay 
 It ran a hundred years to a day. 
 And then, of a sudden, it — — ah ! but stay ; 
 I'll tell you what happen'd 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 Xiisbon-town 
 Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
 
110 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
 Left without a scalp to its crown. 
 It was on the terrible Earthqualcc-day 
 That the Deacon finish'd the one-hoss shay. 
 
 Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, 
 There is alwaj's 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 : 
 rind it somewhere you must and will, — 
 Above or below, or within or without, — 
 And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
 A chaise hreaks down, but doesn't wear out. 
 
 But the Deacon swore, (as deacons do, 
 With an " I dew vuni," 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 couldrC break daown : 
 — " Pur " — said the Deacon — " 't's mightj' 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 lanoewood to make the thills ; 
 
 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 " Settlers' 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. 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Ill 
 
 Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 
 
 Tboroughbiace 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, beasts turn'd gray, 
 
 Deacon and deaconess dropp'd 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 call'd it then ; 
 Eighteen hundred and twenty came, — 
 Eunning 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.) 
 
 EiEST OF November, the Earthquake-day, — 
 There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 
 A general flavour 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. 
 Eor the wheels were just as strong as the thills. 
 And the floor was just as strong as the sills. 
 
112 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 And tlio panels just as strong as the floor. 
 And the whippletree ueithev 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-tail'd, ewe-neck'd bay. 
 
 " Huddup ! " said the parson ; — off went they. 
 
 The parson was working his Sunday's text, — - 
 
 Had got to fifthly, and stopp'd perplex'd 
 
 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 spiU, — 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Tou 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-hoss shay. 
 Logic is logic. That's all I say. 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 113 
 
 THE TWO STREAMS. 
 
 Behold tlie rocky -wall 
 
 That down its sloping sides 
 Pours tlie swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall, 
 
 In rushing river-tides ! 
 
 Yon stream, whose sources run 
 
 Turn'd by a pebble's edge. 
 Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun 
 
 Through the cleft mountain-ledge. 
 
 The slender rill had stray'd. 
 
 But for the slanting stone. 
 To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid 
 
 Of foam-fleck'd Oregon. 
 
 So from the heights of Will 
 
 Life's parting stream descends. 
 And, as a moment turns its slender lill, 
 
 Each widening torrent bends, — 
 
 From the same cradle's side, 
 
 From the same mother's knee, — 
 One to long darkness and the frozen tide, 
 
 One to the Peaceful Sea ! 
 
 MIDSUMMEB. 
 
 Heee ! sweep these foolish leaves away ; 
 I will not crush my brains to-day ! 
 Look ! are the southern curtains drawn ? 
 Fetch me a fan, and so begone ! 
 
 Not that — the palm-tree's rustling leaf 
 Brought from a parching coral-reef ! 
 Its breath is heated ; — I would swing 
 The broad gray plumes, — the eagle's wing. 
 
 -I 
 
114 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 I hate these roses' feverish blood ! 
 Pluck me a lialf-blown lily-bud, 
 A long-stemm'd lily from the lake, 
 Cold as a coiling water-snake ! 
 
 Eain me sweet odours on the air, 
 And wheel me up my Indian chair, 
 And spread some book not overwise 
 Flat out before my sleepy ej-es ! 
 
 Who knows it not — this dead recoil 
 Of weary fibres stretch'd with toil, 
 The pulse that flutters faint and low 
 When summer's seething breezes blow ? 
 
 O Nature ! bare thy loving breast. 
 And give thy child one hour of rest, — 
 One little hour to lie unseen 
 Beneath thy scarf of leafy green ! 
 
 So, ourtain'd by a singing pine, 
 
 Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine, 
 
 Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay 
 
 In sweeter music dies away. 
 
 THE CBAMSEBED NAUTILUS. 
 
 This is the ship of pearl, whieh — poets feign — 
 
 Sails the unshadow'd 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 ; 
 
 Wreck'd is the ship of pearl ! 
 
 And every chamber'd cell. 
 Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 
 
 Before thee lies reveal'd, — 
 Its iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal'd ! 
 
ALBERT PIKE. 115 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil 
 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 
 Still, 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, 
 Stretch'd in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
 more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
 
 ChUd 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, 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 ! 
 
 ALBERT PIKE.* 
 Bom at Boston, Mass: 1809. 
 
 TO CERES. 
 Goddess of bounty ! at whose spring-time call, 
 When on the dewy earth thy first tones fall. 
 Pierces the ground each young and tender blade, 
 And wonders at the sun; each dull, gray glade 
 Is shining with new grass ; from each chill hole 
 Where they had lain enchain'd and dull of soul. 
 The birds come forth, and sing for joy to thee 
 Among the springing leaves ; and, fast and free, 
 The livers toss their chains up to the sun, 
 And through their grassy banks leapingly run, 
 
 * See Note 16. 
 
116 POETEY OF AMERICA. 
 
 "When thou hast touch'd them : thou who ever art 
 The goddess of all beauty : thou whose heart 
 Is ever in the sunny meads and fields ; 
 To whom the laughing earth looks up and yields 
 Her waving treasures : thou that in thy car. 
 With winged dragons, when the morning star 
 Sheds his cold light, touchest the morning trees 
 Until they spread their blossoms to the breeze : — 
 
 0, pour thy light 
 
 Of truth and joy upon our souls this night, 
 And grant to us all plenty and good ease ! 
 
 0, thou, the goddess of the rustling corn ! 
 
 Thou to whom i-eapers sing, and on the lawn 
 
 Pile up their baskets with the full-ear'd wheat ; 
 
 While maidens come, with little dancing feet. 
 
 And bring thee poppies, weaving thee a crown 
 
 Of simple beauty, bending their heads down 
 
 To garland thy full baskets : at whose side, 
 
 Among the sheaves of wheat, doth Bacchus ride 
 
 With bright and sparkling eyes, and feet and mouth 
 
 All wine-stain'd from the warm and sunny south : 
 
 Perhaps one arm. about thy neck he twines, 
 
 While in his car ye ride among the vines, 
 
 And with the other hand he gathers up 
 
 The rich full grapes and holds the glowing cup 
 
 Unto thy lips, — and then he throws it by. 
 
 And crowns thee with bright leaves to shade thine eye, 
 
 So it may gaze with richer love and light 
 
 Upon his beaming brow : — if thy swift flight 
 
 Be on some hill 
 
 Of vine-hung Thrace — 0, come ! while night is still, 
 And greet with heaping arms our gladden'd sight ! 
 
 Lo ! the small stars, above the silver wave. 
 
 Come wandering up the sky, and kindly lave 
 
 The thin clouds with their light, like floating sparks 
 
 Of diamonds in the air ; or spirit barks. 
 
 With unseen riders, "wheeling in the sky ! 
 
 Lo ! a soft mist of light is rising high, 
 
 Like silver shining through a tint of red, 
 
ALBERT PIKE. 117 
 
 And soon the queened moon her love will shed, 
 Like pearl-mist, on the earth and on the sea. 
 Where thou shalt cross to A^iew our mystery ! 
 Lo ! we have torches here for thee, and urns, 
 Where incense with a floating odour bums. 
 And altars piled with various fruits and flowers, 
 And ears of com, gather'd at early hours. 
 And odours fresh from India, with a heap 
 Of manj'-colour'd poppies : — Lo ! we keep 
 Our silent watch for thee, sitting before 
 Thy ready altars, till to our lone shore 
 
 Thy chariot wheels 
 
 Shall come, while ocean to the burden reels, 
 And utters to the sky a stifled roar ! 
 
 TO SPBING. 
 
 O thou, delicious Spring! 
 Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers. 
 
 Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing 
 From odorous beds of light-enfolded flowers, 
 And from enmassed bowers. 
 That over grassy walks their greenness fling, — 
 Come, gentle Spring ! 
 
 Thou lover of yoimg wind. 
 That Cometh from the invisible upper sea 
 
 Beneath the sky, which clouds, its white foam, bind, 
 And, settling in the trees deliciously, 
 
 Makes young leaves dance with glee, 
 Even in the teeth of that old, sober hind, 
 Winter unkind, — 
 
 Come to us : for thou art 
 Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring ! 
 
 Touching the sacred feeling of the heart, 
 Or like a virgin's pleasant welcoming ; 
 And thou dost ever bring 
 A tide of gentle but resistless art 
 Upon the heart. 
 
118 POETRY OF AJVIERICA. 
 
 Bed Aiitumn from tlie South 
 Contends with thee ; alas ! what may he show ? 
 
 What ai-e his purple-stain'd and rosy mouth 
 And bro-wned cheeks to thy soft feet of snow, 
 And timid, pleasant glow, 
 Giving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth. 
 And greenest youth ? 
 
 Gray Summer conquers thee, 
 And yet he has no beauty such as thine : 
 
 What is his ever-streaming fiery sea, 
 To the pure glory that with thee doth shine ? 
 Thou season most divine ! 
 What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy 
 Compare with thee ? 
 
 Come, sit upon the hiUs, 
 And bid the waking streams leap down their side, 
 
 And green the vales with their slight-sounding rills ! 
 And w^hen the stars upon the sky shall gHde, 
 And crescent Dian ride, 
 I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills, 
 On grassy hills. 
 
 Alas ! bright Spring ! not long 
 Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence : 
 
 For thou shalt die the summer heat among, 
 Sublimed to vapour in his fire intense. 
 And, gone forever hence. 
 Exists no more ; no more to earth belong, 
 Except in song. 
 
 So I who sing shall die : 
 Worn unto death, perchance, by care and sorrow ; 
 
 And, fainting thus with an unconscious sigh, 
 Bid unto this poor body a good-morrow — 
 Which now sometime I borrow. 
 And breathe of joyance keener and more high, 
 Ceasing to sigh I 
 
( 119 ) 
 EDGAE ALLAN POE.* 
 
 Born 1S09— died lSi9. 
 
 THE RAVEN. 
 
 Once, upon a midniglit dreary, 
 While I ponder'd, weak and weary. 
 Over many a quaint and curious 
 
 Yolume 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 mutter' d — • 
 
 " 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 wish'd the morrow ; 
 Vainly I had tried 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 
 Eustling of each purple curtain 
 Thrill'd me — ^fill'd me with fantastic 
 
 Terrors never felt before ; 
 So that now, to still the beating 
 Of my heart, I stood repeating — - 
 " 'Tis some visitor intreating 
 
 Entrance at my chamber door, — 
 Some late visitor intreating 
 
 Entrance at my chamber door, — 
 
 This it is, and nothing more." 
 * See Note 17. 
 
120 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 open'd 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 darkness gave no token, 
 And the only word there spoken 
 
 Was the whispered word — " Lenore ! " 
 This I whisper'd, and an echo 
 
 Murmur'd back the word — "Lenore ! "- 
 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 Then into the chamber turning, 
 All my soul within me burning, 
 Soon I heard again 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, 
 Li there stepp'd a stately Eaven 
 Of the saintly days of yore ; 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 121 
 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; 
 
 Not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he ; 
 
 But, with mien of loi-d or lady, 
 Perch'd above my chamber door — 
 
 Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas 
 Just above my chamber door — 
 Perch'd, 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 Eaven 
 
 Wandering from the nightly shore ! 
 Tell me w^hat thy lordly name is 
 
 On the night's Plutonian shore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Eaven — " Nevermore ! " 
 
 Much I marvel'd this ungainly 
 Fowl to hear discourse so plainly. 
 Though its answer little meaning, 
 
 Little relevancy bore : 
 For we can not help agreeing 
 That no living human being 
 Ever yet was bless'd with seeing 
 
 Bird above his chamber door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured 
 
 Bust above this chamber door — 
 
 With such name as "Nevermore." 
 
 But the Eaven, 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 utter' d, 
 Not, a feather then he flutter'd ; 
 Till I scarcely more than mutter'd — 
 
122 POETEY OF AMERICA. 
 
 " Other friends have flown before ; 
 On the morrow lie will leave me 
 As mj- 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 
 Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, 
 
 Till his songs one burden bore, — 
 Till the dirges of his hope the 
 
 Melancholy burden bore 
 
 Of Nevermore ! — of Nevermore ! " 
 
 But, the Eaven still beguiling 
 All my sad soul into smiling. 
 Straight I wheel'd 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." 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing. 
 
 But no syllable expressing 
 
 To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now 
 
 Burn'd 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 lamplight gloated o'er, — 
 But whose velvet violet lining. 
 
 With the lamplight gloating o'er, 
 
 She shall press — ah, never more 1 
 
EDGAR AliLEN POE. 12c 
 
 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, quaff this kind nepenthe, 
 
 And forget this lost Lenore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Eaven — " Nevermore ! " 
 
 " Prophet ! " said I—" thing of evil !— 
 Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
 Whether tempter sent, or whether 
 
 Tempest toss'd 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 Grilead ? 
 
 Tell me — tell me, I implore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Eaven — " Nevermore ! " 
 
 " Prophet! " said I—" thing of evU— 
 
 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 Eaven — " Nevermore ! " 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, 
 Bird or fiend ! " I shriek' d, upstarting, — 
 " Get thee back into the tempest 
 And the night's Plutonian shore ! 
 
124 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 Eaven — " Nevermore ! " 
 
 And the Eaven, never flitting, 
 Still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas 
 
 Just above vay chamber door ; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming 
 Of a demon that is dreaming. 
 And the lamplight, 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 ! 
 
 TSE 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 Eunic rhyme, 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, beUs, beUs, — 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
 Golden bells ! 
 
EDGAR ALLEN POE. 125 
 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
 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 ! 
 0, 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 the 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 endeavour, 
 
 Now — ^now to sit or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 
 0, the bells, bells, bells. 
 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of despair ! 
 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
 
 What a horror they outpour 
 
126 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 On tlie bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 Yet tlie ear it fully knows, 
 By the twanging, 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
 Yet the ear distinctlj' 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, bells, bells, — • 
 In the clamor and the clangour 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 nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human — 
 
 They are Ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 
 Eolls, 
 A psean from the bells ! 
 
EDGAR ALLEN POE. 127 
 
 And Lis merry bosom swells 
 
 With the pasan of the bells ! 
 And he dances and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Eunic rhyme. 
 
 To the pasan of the bells, — 
 Of the bells : 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Eunic rhj'me. 
 
 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 Eunic rhyme. 
 
 To the rolling of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 
 To the tolling of the bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,— 
 BeUs, bells, bells, — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 It was many and many a year ago. 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden lived, whom you may know 
 
 By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
 And this maiden she lived' w^ith no other thought 
 
 Than to love, and be loved by me. 
 
 I w^as 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, 
 
128 POETRY OF AilERICA. 
 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 Mj- beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 So that her high-born kinsmen came, 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not 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 her sepulchre there by the sea, 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 TO HELEN. 
 
 Helen, thy beauty is to me 
 
 Like those Nicean barks of yore 
 
 That gently o'er a perfumed sea 
 
 The w^eary way-worn wanderer bore 
 To his own native shore. 
 
SAEAH MARGARET FULLER. 129 
 
 On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
 Thy h3'acinth hair, thy classic face, 
 
 Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home 
 To the glory that was Greece, 
 And the grandeur that was Eome. 
 
 Lo, in your brilliant window-niche 
 
 How statue-like 1 see thee stand. 
 
 The agate lamp within thy hand ! 
 Ah, Psyche ! from the regions which. 
 
 Are holy land. 
 
 SAEAH MAEGAEET FULLEE (OSSOLI), 
 
 Born at Catabridge, Mass : ISIO — died 1850. 
 
 T3E TEMPLE OF LIFE. 
 
 The temple round 
 Spread green the pleasant ground ; 
 
 The fair colonnade 
 Be of pure marble pillars made, — 
 Strong to sustain the roof, 
 
 Time and tempest proof, 
 Tet, amidst which, ihe lightest bieeze 
 
 Can play as it please; 
 
 The audience hall 
 
 Be free to all 
 
 Who revere 
 The Power worshipp'd here. 
 
 Sole guide of youth — 
 
 Unswerving Truth : 
 
 In the inmost shrine 
 
 Stands the image divine. 
 
 Only seen 
 By those whose deeds have worthy been, — 
 
 Priestlike clean. 
 Those, who initiated are, 
 
 Declare, 
 
 As the hours 
 Usher in varying hopes and powers, 
 
 K 
 
130 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 It changes its face, 
 
 It changes its age, — 
 
 Now a j'onng beaming Grace, 
 
 Now Kestorian Sage: 
 
 But, to the pure in heart. 
 
 This shape of primal art 
 
 In age is fair, 
 
 In youth seems "wise, — 
 
 Beyond compare. 
 
 Above surprise. 
 What it teaches native seems. 
 Its new lore our ancient dreams ; 
 Incense rises from the ground, 
 
 Music flows around ; 
 Firm rest the feet below, clear gaze the eyes above, 
 When Truth to point the way thi-ough life assumes the 
 wand of Love ; 
 
 But, if she cast aside the robe of green, 
 
 Wii^ter's silver sheen. 
 
 White, pure as light, 
 Makes gentle shroud as worthy weed as bridal robe had 
 been. 
 
 EALPH HOTT. 
 
 Born in New York City 1810. 
 OLD. 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ; 
 
 Oft I mark'd him sitting there alone. 
 All the landscape like a page perusing : 
 Poor, unknown, 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone ! 
 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat, 
 Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding, 
 
 Silver buttons, queue, and crimp'd cravat,- — • 
 Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding: 
 There he sat ! 
 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat. 
 
RALPH HOYT. 131 
 
 Seem'd it pitiful he sbould sit there, 
 No one sj-mpathizing, no one heeding, 
 
 None to love him for his thin gray hair 
 And the furrows all so mutely pleading 
 Age and care ; 
 
 Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there. 
 
 It was summer, and we went to school, — 
 Dapper country lads and little maidens ; 
 
 Taught the motto of the " dunce's stool," 
 Its grave import still my fancy ladens : 
 " Here's a fool ! " 
 
 It was summer, and we went to school. 
 
 When the stranger seem'd to mark our play. 
 Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted ; 
 
 I rememher well, too -well, that day : 
 Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, 
 Would not stay. 
 
 When the stranger seem'd to mark our play. 
 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, — 
 Ah ! to me her name Tvas always heaven ! 
 
 She besought him all his grief to tell ; 
 (I was then thirteen and she eleven) 
 Isabel ! — 
 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 
 
 Angel ! said he sadly, — I am old ; 
 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 
 Tet, why I sit here thou shalt be told. 
 
 Then his eye betray'd a pearl of sorrow ; 
 DovTO it roU'd ! 
 Angel ! said he sadly, — ^I am old. 
 
 I have totter'd here to look once more 
 On the pleasant scene where I delighted 
 
 In the careless, happy days of yore, 
 
 Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
 To the core ; 
 
 I have totter'd here to look once more. 
 
132 POETRY OF AMEKICA. 
 
 All the picture now to me how dear ! 
 
 E'ou this gray old rock where I am seated 
 Is a jewel worth my journey here ; 
 
 Ah, that such a scene must he completed 
 With a tear ! 
 All the picture now to me how dear ! 
 
 Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same ; 
 
 There's the very step I so oft mounted ; 
 There's the window creaking in its fiame ; 
 
 And the notches that I cut and counted 
 For the game : 
 Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same. 
 
 In the cottage, yonder, I was born ; 
 
 Long my happy home, that humble dwelling ; 
 There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn ; 
 
 There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling ; 
 Ah, forlorn ! — ■ 
 In the cottage, yonder, I was bom. 
 
 Those two gateway sycamores you see 
 Then were planted just so far asunder, 
 
 That long well-pole from the path to free, 
 
 And the waggon to pass safelj- under : 
 
 Ninety-three ! 
 
 Those two gateway sycamores you see. 
 
 There's the orchard where we used to climb 
 When my mates and I were boys together, 
 
 Thinking nothing of the flight of time, 
 
 Fearing naught but work and rainy weather : 
 Past its prime ! 
 
 There's the orchard where we used to climb. 
 
 There the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails. 
 
 Bound the pasture w^here the flocks were grazing. 
 
 Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails 
 In the crops of buckwheat we were raising : 
 Traps and trails ! 
 
 There the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails. 
 
EALPH HOYT. 133 
 
 There's tlie mill that ground our yellow grain ; 
 
 Pond, and river still serenety flowing ; 
 Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane. 
 
 Where the lily of my heart was blowing : 
 Mary Jane ! 
 There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. 
 
 There's the gate on which I used to swing ; 
 
 Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable ; 
 But alas ! no more the morn shall bring 
 
 That dear group around my father's table ; 
 Taken wing ! 
 There's the gate on which I used to swing. 
 
 I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 
 
 Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; 
 That old tree can tell of sweet things said 
 
 When around it Jane and I were straying : 
 She is dead ! 
 I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 
 
 Ton white spire, a pencil on the sky. 
 Tracing silently life's changeful story, 
 
 So familiar to my dim old eye, 
 
 Points me to seven that are now in glory 
 There on high ; 
 
 Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! 
 
 Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, 
 
 Guided thither by an angel mother ; 
 Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 
 
 Sire and sisters and my little brother 
 Gone to God ! 
 Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 
 
 There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways : 
 Bless the holy lesson ! — but ah, never 
 
 Shall I hear again those songs of praise — 
 Those sweet voices — silent now forever ! 
 Peaceful days ! 
 
 There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. 
 
13i POETilY OF AArERICA. 
 
 Tliere my Mary blest me with, lier liaiui 
 
 When our souls drank in the nuptial blesshiy 
 
 Ero she hastened to the s]iirit-land. 
 
 Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing: 
 Broken baud ! 
 
 There my Mary blest me with hor hand. 
 
 I have come to see that grave once more. 
 And the sacred place where we delighted, 
 
 Where we worshipp'd, in the days of yore, 
 Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
 To the core : 
 
 I have come to see that grave once more. 
 
 Angel ! said he sadly, — I am old ; 
 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 
 Now, w^hy I sit here thou hast been told. 
 
 In his eye another pearl of borrow, — 
 Down it roll'd ! 
 Angel ! said he sadly, — I am old. 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; 
 
 Still I mark'd him sitting there alone. 
 All the landscape, like a page, perusing : 
 Poor, unknown ! 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 
 ALEEED BILLINGS STEEET. 
 
 Born at Poughkeepsie, New York, 1811. 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 How quietly the year, 
 Beneath this soft-eyed season's gentle sway, 
 Falls in its full maturity away 
 
 On winter's frozen bier ! 
 Like sunset gathering to its twilight close 
 Or old age sinking to its last repose. 
 
ALFRED BILLINGS STREET. 135 
 
 When first broke jnorning's liglit, 
 Volumes of fug a feathery ocean roll'd, 
 The woods loom'd glimmering fiom the misty fold, 
 
 Dimlj' the mountain's height 
 Seem'd struggling in the thick and mantling screen, 
 And the bird sang and streamlet play'd unseen. 
 
 The mist has clear'd away ; 
 O'erhead the mild sun glows, a redden'd ball, 
 And on the earth bis placid glances fall. 
 
 While tranquil, meek, and gray, 
 The sky spreads, shaded with its fleece of cloud, 
 And azure glimpses breaking from the shroud. 
 
 The hill slopes soft and calm. 
 The fields still basking in the noontide light ; 
 All seem mj' wandering footsteps to invite ; 
 
 And, with the south-wind's balm 
 Fanning in pure fresh, kisses on my brow, 
 My path is 'mid their haunts of quiet now. 
 
 Across the meadow sear. 
 And up the mount-side where the sumachs spread 
 Their downy biancbes tipp'd with clusters red, 
 
 And what a sight is here, — 
 Arch.'d but by sky, and smiling in the ray 
 Of the warm qiiiet Indian Summer day ; 
 
 The wood-spots dark and deep. 
 The upland vista, and the leaning hill. 
 The lake below — pure polish'd as a rill, 
 
 The sky in peaceful sleep, 
 The far-off mountains like piled smoke-wreaths bright. 
 And valleys melting in rich purple light. 
 
 Late glow'd a different scene, 
 When the chill air had sent its frosty showers : 
 The forests, burst to m3'riad gorgeous flowers, 
 
 Changed from their summer green. 
 The blue morn show'd ; w^hile far and wide a blaze 
 Of differing splendours met the wondering gaze. 
 
136 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 AVitliin the sunny air 
 The foliage glitter'd to the wind's soft sigh, 
 Shone the lake's liosom like a sunset sky. 
 
 Beneath the glories there. 
 And where the mountains fired the heavens it scem'd 
 As though gigantic piles of jewels beamed ; 
 
 And, in the rainbow woods, 
 Here was a fairy canopy unroll'd 
 Of sumptuous crimson blent with brilliant gold. 
 
 There the gemm'd solitudes 
 Porm'd purple arches, bowers of every dye. 
 With opals shower'd on opals to the sky. 
 
 The storm then gather'd o'er 
 With its chill vain, and with its rushing blast ; 
 Upon the gusts their robes the mountains cast. 
 
 The wild lake sent its roar, 
 The pine hiss'd fiercely, and the forests woke 
 Their thundeiings as the wind-surge on them broke. 
 
 But, like an infant's rest, 
 Field, valley, hill, and wood, seem dreaming now 
 In a light glimmering film of purple glow, 
 
 And on the lake's smooth breast 
 The mist- wreaths t-leep, or slowly curl across 
 As the breeze sportive darkens o'er its gloss. 
 
 With murmurs like a flute. 
 The streamlet glitters through the alder-sprays 
 In meteor sparkles or in broken rays. 
 
 Then on its ripples shoot. 
 In braided gushes, bending the long grass 
 And green fern-fringes bathed within their glass. 
 
 Along the forest way 
 I tread ; the soft wind from the pine creeps down 
 And rastles in the beechen thicket brown. 
 
 Then whirls in eddying play 
 The wither'd leaves, strown idly, rattling fast, 
 As showering falls the ripen'd sylvan mast. 
 
ALFRED BILLINGS STREET. 137 
 
 The deer glides shadowy hy, 
 The rabbit springs before iiie wing'd with dread, 
 The squiiTel leaves the strew'd nuts where it fed — 
 
 With a low chirping cry, 
 And the quick flicker like a checker'd speck. 
 Climbs the moss'd oak and taps with darting neck. 
 
 The air — how calm and still ! 
 Each gentle sound comes sweetlj- to mj' ear, — 
 The falling nut, the bee-wing's music near, 
 
 The purling of the rill, 
 The chirp of bird, the sighing of the breeze, 
 And the far axe-blow eolioing through the trees. 
 
 With what a feeling deep 
 Does Nature speak to us ! Oh, how divine 
 The flame that glows on her eternal shrine ! 
 
 ^Vhat knowledge can we reap 
 From her great pages if we read aright ! 
 Through her God shows His wisdom and His might. 
 
 The visions of our youth ! 
 Bright as the autumn foliage are they found, 
 Eobed in their glittering rainbows, all around, 
 
 Eadiant in seeming truth, 
 Luring us onward, with their treacherous ghjw, 
 And brightening lovelier, swifter as they go. 
 
 Then comes the threatening cloud ; 
 Despair seems blackening in our adverse .'^kj- ; 
 Frail as the leaves our brilliant visions die ; 
 
 And, where once brightly glow'd 
 Fancy's enchanted Eden, nought appears 
 But a wide waste of sorrow and of tears. 
 
 But when our youth is past. 
 With its vain visions and its storms, serene 
 As yon mild sky, and peaceful as this scene. 
 
 Contentment smiles at last 
 Upon our way, and glorious hopes are given 
 To light our path, whose native home is heaven. 
 
138 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 SFEABING. 
 
 The lake's g<ild and purple have vanisli'd from siglit. 
 
 The glimmer of tTvilight is merged into night, 
 
 The woods on the borders in blackness are mass'd, 
 
 The waters in motionless ebony glass'd, 
 
 The stars that first spangle the pearl of the west 
 
 Are lost in the bright blazing crowds of the rest ; 
 
 Light the torch ! — launch the boat ! — for to-night we are 
 
 here, 
 The salmon, the quick-darting salmon, to spear. 
 
 We urge our light craft by the push of the oar 
 
 Through the serpent-like stems of the lilies near shore, 
 
 And turn the sharjj prow at yon crescent-shaped cove, 
 
 Made black bj^ the dovsTi-hanging boughs of iti gi ove ; 
 
 The meek eddy-gurgle that whirls at our di23, 
 
 Sounds low as the wine-bead which bursts ou the lip ; 
 
 On the lake, from, the flame of our torch, we behold 
 
 A pyramid pictured in spangles of gold. 
 
 And the marble-like depths on each side of the blaze 
 
 Are full of dark sparkles, far in as vre gaze ; 
 
 The loon from his nook in the bank, sends a cry ; 
 
 The night-hawk darts down, with a rush, through the sky; 
 
 In gutturals hoarse, on his green slimy log. 
 
 To his shriU piping tribe, croaks the patriarch frog ; 
 
 And bleat, low, and bark, from the banks, mingle faint 
 
 With the anchorite whip-poor-will's mournful complaint. 
 
 We glide in the cove ; let the torch be flared low ! 
 
 The spot where our victim is lurking, 'twill show ; 
 
 'JWidst the twigs of this dead sunken tree-top he lies, — 
 
 Poise, comrade ! your spear, — or farewell to our prize ! 
 
 It darts ; to the blow his best efforts are bent, — 
 
 A white bubbling streak shows its rapid descent ; 
 
 He grasps it as upward it shoots through the air, 
 
 Three cheers for our luck ! — the barb'd victim is there ! 
 
 Give way, boys ! give way, boys ! our prow points to shore, 
 
 Give way, boys ! give way, boys ! our labour is o'er. 
 
 As the black mass of forest our torch-light receives. 
 
 It breaks into groups of tninks, branches, and leaves : 
 
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. 139 
 
 Low perch'd on tlie liRiulock, we've blinded with light 
 Yon gray-headed owl ! — see him flutter from i-ight ! 
 And the orator frog, as we glide with our glow, 
 Stops his speech with a groan, and dives splashing below. 
 One long and strong pull ! — the prow grates on the sand ; 
 Three cheers for our luck, boj's ! as spring we to land. 
 
 CHEISTOPHER PEAESE CEANCH. 
 
 Born at Alexandria, near Washington, D.C., 1813. 
 
 WRITTEN AT SOSBENTO. 
 
 The wild waves madly dash and roar, 
 In thunder-throbs, upon the beach ; 
 
 Their broad white hands upon the shoie 
 They struggle evermore to reach. 
 
 Up through the cavernous rocks amain. 
 
 With short, hoarse growl, they plunge and leap. 
 
 Like an arm'd host, again and again, 
 Battering some castellated steep. 
 
 Great pulses of the ocean heart. 
 
 Beating from out immensity ! 
 What mystic news would ye impart 
 
 From the gieat spirit of the sea ? 
 
 Ever, in still increaf^ing force, 
 
 Earnest as cries of love or hate, 
 Your large and eloquent discourse 
 
 Is mighty as the march of fate. 
 
 I sit alone on the glowing sand, 
 
 Fill'd with the music of your speech, 
 
 And only half may understand 
 
 The wondrous lore that ye would teach. 
 
 The sea- weed and the shells are vcise. 
 
 And versed in your broad Sanscrit tongue ; 
 
140 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 The rocks need not our ears and eyes 
 To compieliend the under-song. 
 
 The ocean and the shore are one ; 
 
 The rocks and trees that hang above, 
 The birds and insects in the sun. 
 
 Are liuk'd in one strong tie of love. 
 
 Would that I might with freedom be 
 A seer into j'our hidden truth, 
 
 Joining j^our firm fraternity, 
 
 To drink with j'ou perpetual youth ! 
 
 THE HOUJtS. 
 
 The Hours are Tiewless angels, 
 
 That still go gliding by, 
 And bear each minute's record up 
 
 To Him who sits on high. 
 
 And we, who walk among them. 
 
 As one by one departs. 
 See not that they are hovering 
 
 For ever round our hearts. 
 
 Like Eummer-bees, that hover 
 
 Around the idle flowers, 
 They gather every act and thought, — 
 
 Those viewless Angel-Hours. 
 
 The poison or the nectar 
 
 The heart's deep flower-cnps yield, 
 A sample still they gather sw^ift. 
 
 And leave us in the field. 
 
 And some flit by on pinions 
 
 Of joyous gold and blue. 
 And some flag on with drooping wings 
 
 Of sorrow's darker hue. 
 
HENRY THEODOEE TUCKERMAN. 141 
 
 But still tliey steal the record, 
 
 And bear it far away; 
 Their mission-flight hy day or night 
 
 No magio power can stay. 
 
 And as we spend each minute 
 
 That God to us hath given, 
 The deeds are known before His throne. 
 
 The tale is told in heaven. 
 
 These bee-like Hours we see not. 
 
 Nor hear their noiseless wings ; 
 We only feel, too oft, when flown. 
 
 That they have left their stings. 
 
 So, teach me. Heavenly Father, 
 
 To meet each flying Hour, 
 That as they go thej' may not sh<jw 
 
 My heart a poison-flower ! 
 
 So, when death brings its shadows, 
 
 The Hours that linger last 
 Shall bear my hopes on angel-wings, 
 
 Unfetter'd by the past. 
 
 HENET THEODOEE TUCKEEMAN. 
 Bom at Boston, Mass : 1813 — died 1871. 
 
 TO AN ELM. 
 
 Beatelt thy old arms fling 
 Their countless pennons to the fields of air. 
 
 And, like a sylvan king, 
 Their panoply of green still proudly wear. 
 
 As some rude tower of old. 
 Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, 
 
 With limbs of giant mould, 
 To battle sternly with the winter storm. 
 
l-t2 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 In Nature's mighty fane, 
 Thou art the nolilest arch beneath the sky ; 
 
 How long the pilgrim train 
 That with a benison have pass'd thee by ! 
 
 Lone patriarch of the wood ! 
 Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise, 
 
 Of fresh and dauntless mood, 
 Spreading thy branches to the open skies. 
 
 The locust knows tliee well ; 
 And when the summer-days his notes prolong. 
 
 Hid in some leafy cell. 
 Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song. 
 
 Oft, on a morn in spring. 
 The yellow-bird will seek thy -weaving spray. 
 
 And there securely swing, 
 To whet his benk, and pour his blithesome lay. 
 
 How bursts thy monarch wail. 
 When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, ' 
 
 And, bared to meet the gale. 
 Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife ! 
 
 The sunset often weaves 
 Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare, 
 
 While the fresh-murmuring leaves 
 Fill -with cool sound the evening's sultry air. 
 
 Sacred thy roof of green 
 To rustic dance and childhood's gambols free ! 
 
 Gay youth and age serene 
 Turn with familiar gladness unto thee. 
 
 0, hither should we roam. 
 To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade ; 
 
 Beneath th3' emerald dome 
 Might Fieedom's champion fitly draw his blade. 
 
 With blessings at thy feet, 
 Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest ; 
 
LUCY HOOPER. 143 
 
 Thy verdant, calm retreat 
 Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast. 
 
 When, at the twilight hour. 
 Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam. 
 
 Under tlij^ ancient bower 
 The schoolboj' comes to sport, the bard to dream. 
 
 And when the moonbeams fall 
 Through thy broad canopy upon the grass. 
 
 Making a fairy hall. 
 As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass, — 
 
 Then lovers haste to thee. 
 With hearts that tremble like that shifting light, 
 
 To them, 0, brave old tree ! 
 Thou art joy's shrine — a temple of delight. 
 
 LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 Bom at Newburyport, Mass : 1816 — died 1841. 
 
 DEATH AND LIFE. 
 
 Not unto thee, oh ! pale and radiant Death ! 
 Not unto thee, though every hope be past. 
 Though Life's first, sweetest stars may shine no more, 
 Nor Earth again one cherish'd dream restore, 
 Or from the bright urn of the future cast 
 Aught, aught of joy on me : 
 
 Yet unto thee, oh 1 monarch robed and crown'd, 
 And beautiful in all thy sad array 1 
 I bring no incense. Though the heart be chill, 
 And to the eyes, that tears alone may fill, ; 
 
 Shines not as once the wonted light of day, 
 Still, sttU. upon another shrine my vows 
 
144 POETRY OF ASIEEICA. 
 
 Shall all be duly paid ; and though thy voice 
 Is full of music to the pining heart, 
 And woos one to that pillow of calm rest, 
 Where all Life's dull and restless thoughts depart. 
 Still, not to thee, oh Death ! 
 
 I pay my tows. Though now to me thy brow 
 Seems crown'd with roses of the summer prime 
 And to the aching sense thy voice would be, 
 Oh Death ! oh Death ! of softest melody, 
 And gentle ministries alone weie thine. 
 Still I implore thee not. 
 
 But thou, oh Life ! oh Life ! the searching test 
 Of the weak heart ! to thee, to thee I bow ; 
 And if the fire upon the altar shrine 
 Descend and scathe each glowing hope of mine. 
 Still may my heart as now 
 Turn not from that dread test. 
 
 But let me pay my vows to thee, oh Life ! 
 And let me hope that from that glowing fire 
 There yet may be redeeni'd a gold more pure 
 And bright, and eagle thoughts to mount aud soar 
 
 Their flight the higher, 
 Eeleased from earthly hope, or earthly fear. 
 
 This, this, oh Life ! be mine. 
 Let others strive thy glowing wreaths to bind. 
 Let others seek thy false and dazzling gleams, — 
 For me their light went out on early streams. 
 And faded were thy roses in my grasp, 
 
 No more, no more to bloom. 
 
 Yet as the stars, the holy stars of night, 
 
 Shine out when all is dark, 
 So would I, cheer'd by hopes more purely bright. 
 Tread still the thorny path whose close is light, 
 If but at last the toss'd and weary barque 
 Gain the sure haven of her final rest. 
 
( 145 ) 
 
 EPES SAEGENT.* 
 Bom at Gloucester, Mass : 181G — 
 
 SUMMER IN TEE HEART. 
 
 The cold blast at the casement beats, 
 
 The ■window-panes are white. 
 The snow whirls through the empty streets, - 
 
 It is a dreary night ! 
 Sit down, old friend ; the wine-cups wait 
 
 Fill to o'erflowing ! fill ! 
 Though winter howleth at the gate. 
 
 In our hearts 'tis summer still ! 
 
 For we full many summer joys 
 
 And greenwood sports have shared, 
 When, free and ever -roving boys, 
 
 The rocks, the streams we dared ! 
 And, as I look upon thy face, — 
 
 Back, back o'er years of ill, — 
 My heart flies to that happy place. 
 
 Where it is summer still ! 
 
 Tes ! though, like sere leaves on the ground 
 
 Our early hopes are strewn, 
 And cherish'd flowers lie dead around, 
 
 And singing birds are flown, — 
 The verdtire is not faded quite. 
 
 Not mute all tones that thrill. 
 For seeing, hearing thee to-night, 
 
 In my heart 'tis summer still ! 
 
 Fill up ! the olden times come back 
 
 With light and life once more : 
 We scan the future's sunny track. 
 
 From youth's enchanted shore : 
 The lost return. Through fields of bloom 
 
 We wander at our will ; 
 Gone is the winter's angry gloom : 
 
 In our hearts 'tis summer still ! 
 
 * See Note 18. 
 
146 POETRY OF AMEBICA. 
 
 YE KEEN BMEEZES. 
 
 TE keen breezes from the salt Atlantic, 
 WMcli to the beach where memory loves to wander, 
 On your strong pinions waft reviving coolness, 
 Bend your course hither ! 
 
 Tor, in the surf ye scatter'd to the sunshine, 
 Did we not sport together in my boyhood. 
 Screaming for joj' amid the flashing breakers, 
 rude companions? 
 
 Then to the meadows beautiful and fragrant. 
 Where the coy Spring beholds her earliest verdiire 
 Brighten with smiles that rugged sea-side hamlet, 
 How would we hasten ! 
 
 There under elm-trees affluent in foliage. 
 High o'er whose summit hover'd the sea-eagle, 
 Through the hot, glaring noontide have we rested 
 After our gambols. 
 
 Vainly the sailor call'd you from your slumber : 
 Like a glazed pavement shone the level ocean ; 
 While, with the snow-white canvas idly drooping. 
 Stood the tall vessels. 
 
 And when, at length, exulting ye awaken'd, 
 Eush'd to the beach, and plough'd the liquid acres, 
 How have I chased you through the shiver'd billows, 
 In my frail shallop ! 
 
 PlajTnates, old playmates, hear my invocation ! 
 In the close town I waste this golden summer, 
 Where piercing cries and sounds of wheels in motion 
 Ceaselessly mingle. 
 
 When shall I feel your breath upon my forehead ? 
 When shall I hear you in the elm-trees' bi-anches ? 
 When shall we wrestle in the briny surges, 
 Friends of my boyhood ? 
 
( 147 ) 
 CHAELES GAMAGE EASTMAN. 
 
 Bom at Fryebxirg, Maine, ISIG — 
 A SNOW-STORM IN VERMONT. 
 I. 
 'Tis a fearful niglat in the winter time, 
 
 As cold as it ever can be ; 
 The roar of the Wast is heard, like the chirae 
 
 Of the waves on an angry sea ; 
 The moon is full, but her silver light 
 The storm dashes out "\vith its wings tonight ; 
 And over the sky from south to north 
 Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 
 In the strength of a mighty glee. 
 
 n. 
 
 All day had the snow come down, — all day. 
 
 As it never came down before ; 
 And over the hills at sunset lay 
 
 Some two or three feet, or more ; 
 The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; 
 The windows block'd, and the well-curbs gone ; 
 The haystack had grown to a mountain lift ; 
 And the -woodpile look'd like a monster drift. 
 
 As it lay by the farmer's door. 
 
 The night sets in on a world of snow. 
 While the air grows sharp and chill. 
 
 And the warning roar of a fearful blow^ 
 Is heard on the distant hill ; 
 
 And the Norther ! — See ! on the mountain peak. 
 
 In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek ! 
 
 He shouts on the plain — ^Ho — ^ho ! ho — ho ! 
 
 He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
 And growls with a savage w^ill. 
 
 in. 
 
 Such a night as this to be found abroad. 
 In the drifts and the freezing air,— 
 
 Sits a shivering dog in the field by the road. 
 With the snow in his shaggy hair ! 
 
148 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 He shuts his eyes to the wind, and gi-owls ; 
 He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; 
 Then crouching low from the cutting sleet, 
 His nose is press'd on his quivering foet : — 
 Pray, what does the dog do there ? 
 
 A fanner came from the village plain, 
 
 But he lost the travell'd way ; 
 And for hours he trod, with might and main, 
 
 A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
 But colder still the cold wind blew, 
 And deeper still the deep drifts grew. 
 And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
 At last in her struggles flounder'd down. 
 
 Where a log in a hollow lay. 
 
 In vain, w^ith a neigh and a frenzied snort. 
 She plunged in the drifting snow. 
 
 While her master urged, till his breath grew short. 
 With a word and a gentle blow ; 
 
 But the snow w^as deep, and the tugs were tight ; 
 
 His hands were numb, and had lost their might ; 
 
 So he wallow'd back to his half-filled sleigh. 
 
 And strove to shelter himself till day. 
 With his coat and the buffalo. 
 
 IV. 
 He has given the last faint jerk of the rein 
 
 To rouse up his dying steed, 
 And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain, 
 
 For help in his master's need ; 
 For a while he strives, with a wistful cry, 
 To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 
 And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
 The skirt of the buffalo over his lap. 
 
 And whines when he takes no heed. 
 
 V. 
 The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er : 
 
 'Tis the hour of midnight, — past ; 
 The old trees writhe and bend no more 
 
 In the whirl of the rushing blast ; 
 
CHAELES GAMAGE EASTJIAN. 149 
 
 The silent moon, witli her peaceful light, 
 Looks down on the hills with snow all white ; 
 And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
 The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, 
 Afar on the plain are cast. 
 
 But cold and dead, by the hidden log. 
 
 Are they w^ho came from the tow^n : 
 The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog. 
 
 And his beautiful Morgan brown : — 
 In the wide snow-desert, far and grand. 
 With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand, — 
 The dog with his nose on his master's feet, — 
 And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet. 
 
 Where she lay when she iiounder'd down. 
 
 THE FAEMEB. 
 
 The farmer sat in his easy chair, 
 
 SmoMng his pipe of clay. 
 While his hale old wife with busy care 
 Was clearing the dinner away ; 
 A sweet little girl with fine blue eyes 
 On her grandfather's fcn.ee was catching flies. 
 
 The old man laid his hand on her head, 
 
 With a tear on his wrinkled face ; 
 He thought how often her mother, dead, 
 Had sat in the self-same place : 
 As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye — 
 "Don't smoke" — said the child; "how it makes you cry ! ' 
 
 The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor 
 Where the shade aftfir noon used to steal ; 
 The busy old wife by the open door 
 Was turning the spinning--wheel ; 
 And the old brass clock on the manteltree 
 Had plodded along to almost three : 
 
150 POETRY OF A5IEEICA. 
 
 Still tbe farmer sat in Ms easy chair, 
 While close to his heaving breast 
 The moisten'd bro-n- and the cheek so fair 
 Of his sweet grandchild were press'd ; 
 His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay — 
 Fast asleep were they both, that summer day. 
 
 DIBGE. 
 
 Softly ! 
 She is lying 
 With her lips apart. 
 
 Softly ! 
 She is dying 
 Of a broken heart. 
 
 Whisper ! 
 She is going 
 To her final rest. 
 
 Whisper ! 
 Life is growing 
 Dim within her breast. 
 
 Gently ! 
 She is sleeping ; 
 She has breathed her last. 
 
 Gently ! 
 While you are weeping, 
 She to Heaven has past. 
 
 JOHN GODFEET SAXE. 
 
 Born at Highgate, Termont, 1816 — 
 TEE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. 
 
 It was six men of Indostan, 
 To learning much inclined, 
 
 Who went to see the Elephant 
 (Though all of them were blind), 
 
 That each by observation 
 Might satisfy his mind. 
 
JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 151 
 
 The First approach'd the Elephant, 
 
 And, happening to fall 
 Against his broad and sturdj' side. 
 
 At once began to bawl : 
 " God bless me ! but the Elephant 
 
 Is very like a wall ! " 
 
 The Second, feeling of the tusk, 
 
 Cried — " Ho ! what have we here 
 So very round and smooth and sharp ? 
 
 Tome 'tis mighty clear, 
 This wonder of an Elephant 
 
 Is very like a spear ! " 
 
 The Third approach'd the animal, 
 
 And happening to take 
 The squirming trunk within his hands, 
 
 Thus boldly up and spake : 
 " I see " — quoth he — " the Elephant 
 
 Is very like a snake ! " 
 
 The Fourth reach'd out his eager hand. 
 
 And felt about the knee : 
 " What most this wondrous beast is like 
 
 Is mighty plain " — quoth he, — 
 " 'Tis clear enough the Elephant 
 
 Is very like a tree ! " 
 
 The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear. 
 
 Said — " E'en the blindest man 
 Can tell what this resembles most ; 
 
 Deny the fact who can. 
 This marvel of an Elephant 
 
 Is very like a fan ! " 
 
 The Sixth no sooner had begun 
 
 About the beast to grope. 
 Then, seizing on the swinging tail 
 
 That fell within his scope, 
 " I see " — quoth he, — " the Elephant 
 
 Is very like a rope ! '\ 
 
152 POETRY OF AJtERICA. 
 
 And so tliese men of Indostan 
 Disputed loud and long, 
 
 Each in his own opinion 
 Exceeding stiif and strong. 
 
 Though each was partly in the right, 
 And all were in the wrong ! 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 So, oft in theologic ■wars 
 The disputants, I ween, 
 
 Eail on in utter ignorance 
 Of what each other mean ; 
 
 And prate about an Elephant 
 Not one of them 1ms seen ! 
 
 FM GROWING OLD. 
 
 My days pass pleasantly away. 
 
 My nights are blest with sweetest sleep ; 
 I feel no symptoms of decay, 
 
 I have no cause to mourn nor weep ; 
 My foes are impotent and shy. 
 
 My friends are neither false nor cold : 
 And yet, of late, I often sigh — 
 
 " I'm growing old." 
 
 My growing talk of olden times. 
 My growing thirst for early news. 
 
 My growing apathy to rhymes, 
 My growing love of easy shoes. 
 
 My growing hate of crowds and noise. 
 My growing fear of taking cold : 
 
 All whisper, in the plainest voice, — 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 I'm growing fonder of my staff, 
 I'm growing dimmer in the eyes, 
 
 I'm growing fainter in my laugh, 
 I'm growing deeper in my isiglis, 
 
JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 153 
 
 I'm growing careless of my dress, 
 I'm growing frugal of my gold, 
 I'm growing wise, I'm growing, — yes ! 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 I see it in my changing taste, 
 
 I see it in my changing hair, 
 I see it in my growing waist, 
 
 I see it iu my grow^ing heir ; 
 A thousand signs proclaim the truth, 
 
 As plain as truth was ever told. 
 That, even in my vaunted youth, 
 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 Ah m.e ! my very laurels breathe 
 
 The tale in my reluctant ears. 
 And every boon the Hours bequeath 
 
 But makes me debtor to the Tears. 
 E'en Flattery's honey'd words declare 
 
 The secret she would fain withliold. 
 And teU me, in " How young you are ! " — 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 Thanks for the years whose rapid flight 
 
 My sombre muse too sadly sings ! 
 Thanks for the gleams of golden light 
 
 That tint the darkness of their wings ! 
 The light that beams from out the sky. 
 
 Those heavenly mansions to unfold 
 Where all are blest, and none may sigh — 
 " I'm growing old ! " 
 
 KISS ME SOFTLY. 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to m.e low. 
 Malice has ever a vigilant ear : 
 What if Malice were lurking near ? 
 Kiss me, dear ! 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
154 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — 
 Envy too tas a watchful ear : 
 WKat if Envy should chance to hear ? 
 Kiss me, dear ! 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low : 
 Tnist me, darling, the time is near 
 When lovers may love with never a fear,- 
 Kiss me, dear ! 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 EGBERT TEAIL SPENCE LOWELL, 
 
 Bom at Boston, Mass : 1816 — 
 THE RELIEF OF ZUCKNOW. 
 
 Oh ! that last day in Lucknow fort ! 
 
 We knew that it v^as the last ; 
 
 That the enemy's mines had crept surely in. 
 
 And the end was coming fast. 
 
 To yield to that foe meant worse than death ; 
 And the men and we all w^ork'd on : 
 It was one day more, of smoke and roar. 
 And then it would all be done. 
 
 There was one of us, a corporal's wife, 
 A fair young gentle thing, 
 Wasted with fever in the siege. 
 And her mind was wandering. 
 
 She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid, 
 
 And I took her head on my knee ; 
 
 " When my father comes hame frae the pleugh" — she said- 
 
 " Oh ! please then waken me." 
 
 She slept like a child on her father's floor 
 In the flecking of woodbine-shade. 
 When the house-dog sprawls by the open door. 
 And the mother's wheel is stay'd. 
 
BOBERT TRAIL SPENCE LOWELL. 155 
 
 It was smoke and roar, and powder-stenoli. 
 And hopeless waiting for death ; 
 But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, 
 Seem'd scarce to draw her breath. 
 
 I sank to sleep, and I had my dream 
 Of an English -village-lane, 
 And wall and garden ; — a sudden scream 
 Brought me back to the roar again. 
 
 There Jessie Brown stood listening, 
 And then a broad gladness broke 
 All over her face, and she took my hand 
 And drew me near and spoke : 
 
 " Tlie Highlanders ! Oh ! dinna ye hear 
 The slogan far awa' — • 
 The McGregor's? Ah ! I ken it weel ; 
 It's the grandest o' them a'. 
 
 " God bless thae bonny Highlanders ! 
 We're saved ! we're saved ! " she cried ; 
 And fell on her knees, and thanks to God 
 Pour'd forth, like a full flood-tide. 
 
 Along the battery-line her cry 
 
 Had fallen among the men ; 
 
 And they started, for they were there to die : 
 
 Was life so near them then ? 
 
 They listen' d, for life ; and the rattling fire 
 Far off, and the far-off roar 
 Were all ; — and the colonel shook his head. 
 And they tum'd to their guns once more. 
 
 Then Jessie said — " That slogan's dune ; 
 But can ye no hear them, noo, — 
 The Campbells are comin' f It's no a dream ; 
 Our succours hae broken through ! " 
 
 We heard the roar and the rattle afar, 
 But the pipes we could not hear ; 
 
156 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 So the men plied their work of hopeless war, 
 And knew that the end was near. 
 
 It ■was not long ere it must be heard, — 
 
 A shrilling, ceaseless sound ; 
 
 It was no noise of the strife afar, 
 
 Or the sappers undei^ound. 
 
 It icas the pipes of the Highlanders, 
 And now they play'd " Auld Lang Sijne : " 
 It came to our men like the voice of God, 
 And they shouted along the line. 
 
 And they wept and shook one another's hands, 
 And the women sobb'd in a crowd ; 
 And every one knelt down w^hei'e we stood. 
 And we all thank'd God aloud. 
 
 That happy day, when we welcomed them. 
 Our men put Jessie first ; 
 And the General took her hand, and cheers 
 From the men, like a volley, burst 
 
 And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'd. 
 Marching round and round our line ; 
 And our joj-ful cheers w^ere broken with tears. 
 For the pipes play'd " Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 LOVE DISPOSED OF. 
 
 Here goes Love ! Now cut him clear, 
 
 A weight about his neck : 
 
 If he linger longer here. 
 
 Our ship will be a wreck. 
 
 Overboard I Overboard ! 
 
 Down let him go ! 
 
 In the deep he may sleep, 
 
 Where the corals grow. 
 
HPNRT DAVID THOEEAU. 157 
 
 He said he'd woo the gentle breeze, 
 
 A bright fear in her eye ; 
 
 But she was false or hard to please, 
 
 Or he has told a lie. 
 
 Overboard ! overboard ! 
 
 Down in the sea 
 
 He may find a truer mind 
 
 Where the mermaids be. 
 
 He sang us many a meiTy song 
 While the breeze was kind : 
 But he has been lamenting long 
 The falseness of the wind. 
 Overboard ! overboard ! 
 Under the wave 
 
 Let him sing where smooth shells ring 
 In the ocean's cave ! 
 
 He may struggle ; he may weep ; 
 
 We'll be stern and cold ; 
 
 His grief will find, within the deep, 
 
 More tears than can be told. 
 
 He has gone overboard ! 
 
 We will float on ; 
 
 We shall find a truer w^ind 
 
 Now that he is gone. 
 
 HENEY DAVID THOEEAU. 
 Born at Boston, Masa : 1817— died 1862. 
 
 nfSPIBATION. 
 
 If with light head erect I sing, 
 
 Though all the Muses lend their force, 
 
 From my poor love of any thing, 
 
 The verse is weak and shallovr as its source. 
 
 But if with bended neck I grope, 
 
 Listening behind me for my wit. 
 
 With faith superior to hope. 
 
 More anxious to keep back than forward it ; 
 
158 POETRY OF A5IERICA, 
 
 Making mj' soul accomplice there 
 
 Unto the flame my heart hath lit, 
 
 Then -will the verse for ever -wear, — 
 
 Time cannot bend the line -which God has -n-rit. 
 
 I hearing get, -who had but ears, 
 
 And sight, -vrho had but e)'es before ; 
 
 I moments live, -who lived but years. 
 
 And truth discern, who kne-w but learning's lore. 
 
 Nq-w chiefly is my natal hour. 
 
 And only no-w my prime of life : 
 
 Of manhood's strength it is the flo-wer, 
 
 'Tis peace's end, and -war's beginning strife. 
 
 It comes in summer's broadest noon, 
 Bj- a gray -wall, or some chance place, 
 Unseasoning time, insulting June, 
 And vexing day -with its presuming face. 
 
 I -will not doubt the love untold 
 "Which not my -worth nor -want hath bought, 
 "Which "woo'd me young, and -woo'd me old, 
 And to this evening hath me brought. 
 
 UPON THJE BEACB. 
 
 My life is like a stroll upon the beach, 
 As near the ocean's edge as I can go ; 
 
 My tardy steps its -waves sometimes o'erreach, 
 Sometimes I stay to let them overflo-w. 
 
 My sole employment 'tis and scrupulous care 
 To set my gains beyond the reach of tides, — 
 
 Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, 
 Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. 
 
 I have but fe-w companions on the shore, — 
 They scorn the strand -who sail upon the sea ; 
 
 Tet oft I think the ocean they've sail'd o'er 
 Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 
 
WILLIAM ELLERY CHAJ!fNING. 150 
 
 The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, 
 Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view ; 
 
 Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 
 
 And I converse with many a shipwreck'd crew. 
 
 WILLIAM ELLEET CHANNING.* 
 
 Born at Boston, Mass : 1818 — 
 TEE FLIGHT OF TEE WILD GEESE. 
 
 Eamblisg along the marshes, 
 
 On the bank of the Assabett, 
 
 Sounding myself as to hovs^ it went. 
 
 Praying that I might not forget, 
 
 And all uncertain 
 
 Whether I was in the right. 
 
 Toiling to lift Time's curtain. 
 
 And if I burnt the strongest light, — 
 
 Suddenly, 
 
 High in the air, 
 
 I heard the travel'd geese 
 
 Their overture prepare. 
 
 Stirr'd above the patcht ball. 
 
 The wild geese flew. 
 
 Nor near so wild as that doth me befall. 
 
 Or, swollen Wisdom ! you. 
 
 In the front there fetch'd a leader. 
 
 Him behind the line spread out, 
 
 And waved about, 
 
 As it was near night. 
 
 When these air-pilots stop their flight. 
 
 Oruising ofi' the shoal dominion 
 Where we sit ; 
 
 Depending not on their opinion, 
 Nor hiving sops of wit ; 
 
 * See Note 19. 
 
160 . POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Geographical in tact, 
 
 Naming not a pond or river ; 
 
 Pull'd with twilight down, in fact, 
 
 In the reeds to quack and quiver ; — 
 
 There they go, 
 
 Spectators at the play below. 
 
 Southward in a row. 
 
 Cannot laud and map the stars 
 The iudiflferent geese ; 
 Nor taste the sweetmeats in odd jars ; 
 Nor speculate and freeze ; 
 Bancid wea,saiLds need be well. 
 Feathers glossy, quills in order ; 
 Starts this train, yet rings no bell, — 
 Steam is raised without recorder. 
 
 " Up, my feather'd fowl ! all ! " 
 
 Saith the goose commander ; 
 
 " Brighten your bills, and flirt your pinions, 
 
 My toes are nipp'd — let us render 
 
 Ourselves in soft Guatemala, 
 
 Or suck puddles in Campeachy ; 
 
 Spitzbergen-cake cuts very frosty. 
 
 And the tipple is not leechy ! 
 
 " Let's brush loose for any creek. 
 There lurk fish and fly. 
 Condiments to fat the weak. 
 Inundate the pie. 
 Flutter not about a place. 
 Ye concomitants of space ! " 
 
 Mute the listening nations stand 
 
 On that dark receding land ; 
 
 How faint their villages and towns, 
 
 Scatter'd on the misty downs ! 
 
 A meeting-house 
 
 Appears no bigger than a mouse ! 
 
WILLIAM ELLERT CHAINING. 161 
 
 How long ? — 
 Never is a question ask'd, 
 WHle a throat can lift the song. 
 Or a flapping wing be task'd. 
 
 All the grandmothers about 
 
 Hear the orators of heaven ; 
 
 Then put on their woollens stout, 
 
 And cower o'er the hearth at even ; 
 
 And the children stare at the sky, 
 
 And laugh to see the long black line so high ! 
 
 Thence once more I heard them say, — • 
 " 'Tis a smooth, delightful road ; 
 Difficult to lose the way, 
 And a trifle for a load." 
 
 'Twas OUT forte to pass, for this 
 Proper sack of sense to borrow 
 Wings and legs, and bills that clatter. 
 And the horizon of To-morrow. 
 
 TO MY COMPANIONS. 
 
 Ye heavy-hearted mariners 
 
 Who sail this shore ! 
 Te patient, ye who labour 
 
 Sitting at the sweeping oar. 
 And see afar the flashing sea-gulls play 
 On the free waters, and the glad bright day 
 Twine with his hand the spray ! 
 
 From out your dreariness, 
 
 Prom your heart weariness, 
 
 I speak, for I am yours 
 
 On these gray shores. 
 
 Nay, nay, I know not, mariners ! 
 
 What cliffs they are. 
 That high uplift their smooth dark fronts, 
 
 And sadly round us bar ; 
 
 M 
 
162 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 I do imagine that tlie free clouds play 
 
 Above those eminent heights, that somewhere Day 
 
 Hides his triumphant way, 
 
 And hath secure dominion 
 
 Over our stem oblivion, — 
 
 But see no path thereout 
 
 To free from doubt. 
 
 AETHUE CLEVELAND COXE. 
 
 Born at Slendham, New Jersey, 1818 — 
 TSE OLD ABBEYS.* 
 
 Ye abbeys and ye arches ! 
 
 How few and far between 
 The remnants of your glory 
 
 In all their pride are seen ; 
 A thousand fanes are fallen. 
 
 And the bat and owl repose 
 Where once the people knelt them, 
 
 And the high Te Detjm rose. 
 
 But their dust and stones are precious 
 
 In the eyes of pious men. 
 And the baron hath his manor, 
 
 And the king his own again ! 
 And again the bells are ringing 
 
 With a free and happy sound, 
 And again Te Deum riseth 
 
 In all the chmrches round. 
 
 Now, pray ye for our mother, 
 
 That England long may be, 
 The holy, and the happy. 
 
 And the gloriously free ! 
 Wh.0 blesseth her is blessed ! 
 
 So peace be in her walls ; 
 And joy in all her palaces. 
 
 And cottages and halls ! 
 
 * See Note 20. 
 
TH03L4.S HILL. 163 
 
 All ye, wlio pray in Englisli, 
 
 Praj' God for England, pray ! 
 And chiefly, thon, my country, 
 
 In thy young glory's day ! 
 Pray God those times return not, 
 
 'Tis England's hour of need ! 
 Pra_y for thy mother, daughter ! 
 
 Plead Gud for England, plead ! 
 
 THOMAS HILL. 
 
 Bom at New Brunswick, in New Jersey, ISIS- 
 
 TBE BOBOLINK. 
 
 BoBOLixK ! that in the meadow. 
 Or beneath the orchard's shadow, 
 Keepest up a constant rattle. 
 Joyous as my children's prattle, 
 Welcome to the north again ! 
 Welcome to mine ear thy strain, 
 Welcome to mine eye the sight 
 Of thy bufi', thy black and white ! 
 Brighter plumes may greet the sun 
 By the banks of Amazon ; 
 Sweeter tones may weave the spell 
 Of enchanting Philomel ; 
 But the tropic bird would fail. 
 And the English nightingale, 
 If we should compare their worth 
 With thy endless, gushing mirth. 
 
 When the ides of May are past, 
 June and summer nearing fast. 
 While from depths of blue above 
 Comes the mighty breath of love, 
 Calling out each bud and flower 
 With resistless, secret power, — 
 Waking hope and fond desire, 
 Kindling the erotic fire, — 
 
164 POETEY OF AilERICA. 
 
 Filling youths' and maidens' dreams 
 Witli mysterious, pleasing themes, — 
 Then, amid the sunlight clear 
 Floating in the fragrant air, 
 Thoa dost fill each heart with pleasure 
 By thy glad ecstatic measure. 
 
 A single note, so sweet and low, 
 Like a full heart's overflow, 
 Forms the prelude ; hut the strain 
 Gives us no such tone again, 
 For the wild and saucy song 
 Leaps and skips the notes among. 
 With such quick and sportive play, 
 Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 
 
 Gayest songster of the Spring ! 
 Thy melodies before me bring 
 Visions of some dream-built land. 
 Where, by constant zephyrs fann'd, 
 I might walk the livelong day, 
 Embosom'd in perpetual May. 
 Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ; 
 For thee a tempest never blows ; 
 But when our northern Summer's o'er. 
 By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore 
 The wild rice lifts its airy head. 
 And royal feasts for thee are spread. 
 And when the winter threatens there, 
 Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. 
 But bear thee to more Southern coasts, 
 Far beyond the reach of frosts. 
 
 Bobolink ! still may thy gladness 
 Take from me all taints of sadness ; 
 Fill my soul with trust unshaken 
 In that Being who has taken 
 Care for every living thing. 
 In Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring. 
 
( 165 ) 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 Born at Cambridge, Mass : 1819 — 
 
 BECECUS. 
 
 God sends His teacliers unto every age. 
 
 To every clime, and every race of men, 
 
 Witli revelations fitted to tlieir grovsrth 
 
 And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth 
 
 Into the selfish rule of one sole race. 
 
 Therefore each form of worship that hath sway'd 
 
 The life of man, and given it to grasp 
 
 The master-key of knowledge — reverence. 
 
 Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right ; 
 
 Else never had the eager soul, which loathes 
 
 The slothful down of pamper'd ignorance, 
 
 Pound in it even a moment's fitful rest. 
 
 There is an instinct in the human heart 
 Which makes that all the fables it hath coin'd. 
 To justify the reign of its belief 
 And strengthen it by beauty's right divine. 
 Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, 
 Which, like the hazel-twig, in faithful hands. 
 Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. 
 Eor, as in nature naught is made in vain. 
 But all things have within their hull of use 
 A wisdom and a meaning, which may speak 
 Of spiritual secrets to the ear 
 Of spirit : so, in whatsoe'er the heart 
 Hath fashion'd for a solace to itself, 
 To make its inspirations suit its creed. 
 And from the niggard hands of Falsehood wiing 
 Its needful food of truth, there ever is 
 A sympathy with Nature, which reveals. 
 Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light 
 And earnest parables of inw;ard lore. 
 Hear now this fairy legend of old G-reece, 
 As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still 
 
ICG POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 As the immortal freshness of that grace 
 Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. 
 
 A youth named Ehoecus, wandering in the wood, 
 Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall ; 
 And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, 
 He propp'd its gray tnink with admiring care, 
 And with a thoughtless footstep loiter'd on. 
 But, as he turn'd, he heard a voice behind 
 That murmur'd — " Khoecus ! " 'Twas as if the leaver, 
 Stirr'd by a passing breath, had murmur'd it ; 
 And, ■CT'hile he paused bewilder'd, yet again 
 It murmur'd — " Ehoecus ! " softer than a breeze. 
 He started and beheld with dizzy eyes 
 What seem'd the substance of a happy dream 
 Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow 
 Within the green glooms of the ishadowy oak. 
 It seem'd a woman's shape, yet all too fair 
 To be a woman, and with eyes too meek 
 For any that were -s^ont to mate with gods. 
 All naked like a goddess stood she there. 
 And like a goddess all too beautiful 
 To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. 
 " Ehcecus ! I am the Dryad of this tree" — 
 Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words. 
 Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew — 
 " And with it I am doom'd to live and die ; 
 The rain and sunshine are my caterers. 
 Nor have I other bliss than simple life ; 
 Now ask me -what thou wilt, that I can give. 
 And with a thankful J03' it shall be thine." 
 
 Then Ehcecus with a flutter at the heart, 
 Tet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, 
 Answer'd — " What is there that can satisfy 
 The endless craving of the soul but love ? 
 Give me thy love, or but the hope of that 
 Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." 
 After a little pause she said again. 
 But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone — 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 1C7 
 
 " I give it, Elioecus, tliougli a perilous gift ; — 
 An hour before tlie sunset meet me here ! " 
 And straightway there was nothing he could see 
 But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak ; 
 And not a sound came to his straining ears 
 But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, 
 And, far away upon an emerald slope. 
 The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. 
 
 Now, in those days of simpleness and faith. 
 Men did not think that happy things were dreams 
 Because they overstepped the narrow bourne 
 Of likelihood, but reverently deem'd 
 Nothing too w^ondrous or too beautiful 
 To be the guerdon of a daring heart. 
 So Ehcecus made no doubt that he was blest ; 
 And all along unto the city's gate 
 Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walk'd; 
 The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, 
 And he could scarce believe he had not wings, — 
 Such sunshine seem'd to glitter through his veins 
 Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. 
 
 Young Ehcecus had a faithful heart enough. 
 But one that in the present dwelt too much. 
 And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er 
 Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that; 
 Like the contented peasant of a vale, 
 Deem'd it the world, and never look'd beyond. 
 So, haply meeting in the afternoon 
 Some comrades vcho were playing at the dice. 
 He joined them and forgot all else beside. 
 
 The dice were rattling at the merriest. 
 And Ehcecus, who had met but sori-y luck. 
 Just laugh'd in triumph at a happy throw. 
 When through the room there humm'd a yellow bee 
 That buzz'd about his ear with down-dropp'd legs. 
 As if to light. And Ehcecus laugh'd and said, 
 reeling how red and flushed he was with loss. 
 
168 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 " By Voniis ! does lie take me for a rose ? " 
 
 And bruslied liim oif -(vitli rough, impatient hand. 
 
 But still the bee came back, and thrice again, 
 
 Ehoecus did beat him off Tvith growing Tvrath. 
 
 Then through the window flew the wounded bee ; 
 
 And Ehoecus, tracking him with angry eyes, 
 
 Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly 
 
 Against the red disc of the setting sun, — 
 
 And instantly the blood sank from his heart. 
 
 As if its very walls had caved awaj''. 
 
 Without a w^ord he turn'd, and rushing forth. 
 
 Ban madly through the city and the gate. 
 
 And o'er the plain, which row the woods' long shade, 
 
 By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, 
 
 Darken'd well-nigh unto the city's walL 
 
 Quite spent and out of breath, he reach'd the tree ; 
 And, listening fearfully, he heard once more 
 The low voice murmur — " Ehoecus ! " close at hand : 
 Whereat he look'd around him, but could see 
 Nought but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. 
 Then sigh'd the voice - — " 0, Ehoecus ! never more 
 Shalt thou behold me, or by day or night, — 
 Me, w^ho would fain have blest thee with a love 
 More ripe and bounteous than ever yet 
 Fill'd up with nectar any mortal heart; 
 But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, 
 And sent'st him back to me vdth bruised wings. 
 We spirits only show to gentle eyes, — 
 We ever ask an undivided love ; 
 And he who scorns the least of Nature's works 
 ■ Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. 
 Parewell ! for thou canst never see me more." 
 
 Then Ehoecus beat his breast, and groan 'd alond. 
 And cried — " Be pitiful ! forgive me yet 
 This once, and I shall never need it more ! " 
 " Alas ! " the voice retum'd — " 'tis thou art blind. 
 Not I unmerciful ; I can forgive. 
 But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes ; 
 
JAMES BUSSELL LOWELL. 169 
 
 Only the soul hath power o'er itself." 
 With that again there murmur'd " Nevermore ! " 
 And Ehcecus after heard no other sound, 
 Except the x-attling of the oak's crisp lea%-es, 
 Like the long surf upon a distant shore 
 Baking the sea-worn pebbles up and dowa. 
 The night had gather'd round him ; o'er the plain 
 The citj' sparkled with its thousand lights, 
 And sounds of revel fell upon his ear 
 Harshly and like a curse ; above, the sky, 
 With all its bright sublimity of stars, 
 Deepen'd, and on his forehead smote the breeze ; 
 Beauty was all around him, and delight ; 
 But from that eve he was alone on earth. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Into the sunshine, 
 
 Full of the light. 
 Leaping and flashing 
 
 From mom till night ; 
 
 Lito the moonlight, 
 Whiter than snow^, 
 
 Waving so flower-like. 
 When the winds blow ; 
 
 Into the starlight. 
 Bushing in spray, — 
 
 Happy at midnight 
 Happy by day;— 
 
 Ever in motion, 
 
 Blithesome and cheery, 
 StQl climbing heavenward, 
 
 Never aweary; — 
 
 Glad of all weathers. 
 Still seeming best. 
 
 Upward or downward. 
 Motion thy rest; — 
 
170 POETRY OF AJIERICA. 
 
 Full of a nature 
 
 Nothing can tame, — ■ 
 
 Cbanged eveiy moment, 
 Ever the same ; — 
 
 Ceaseless aspiring. 
 Ceaseless content, — 
 
 Darkness or sunshine 
 Thy element ; — 
 
 Glorious fountain ! 
 
 Let my heart he 
 Fresh, changeful, constant, 
 
 Upward, like thee ! 
 
 TSE FALCON. 
 
 I KNOW a falcon swift and peerless 
 As e'er -was cradled in the pine ; 
 
 No bird had ever eye so fearless. 
 Or wing so strong as this of mine. 
 
 The winds not better love to pilot 
 A cloud with molten gold o'errun. 
 
 Than him, a little burning islet, 
 A star above the coming sun. 
 
 For with a lark's heart he doth tower. 
 By a glorious, upward instinct drawn 
 
 No bee nestles deeper in the flower 
 Than he in the bursting rose of dawn. 
 
 No harmless dove, no bird that singeth, 
 Shudders to see him overhead ; 
 
 The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth 
 To innocent hearts no thrill of dread. 
 
 Let fraud and w^rong and baseness shiver, 
 For still between them and the sky 
 
 The falcon Truth hangs poised for ever, 
 And marks them with his vengeful eye. 
 
JA3IES RUSSELL LOWELL. 171 
 
 SUNGES AND COLD. 
 
 SisTEES two ! all praise to you, 
 With your faces pincfd and blue ; 
 To the poor man you've been true 
 
 Prom of old : 
 You can speak the keenest word, 
 You are sure of being heard, 
 From the point you're never stirr'd, — 
 
 Huno;er and Cold ! 
 
 Let sleek statesmen temporize, — 
 Palsied are their shifts and lies 
 When they meet your bloodshot eyes. 
 
 Grim and bold ; 
 Policy you set at naught, 
 In their- traps you'll not be caught, 
 You're too honest to be bought, — 
 
 Hunger and Cold ! 
 
 Bolt and bar the palace-door ! 
 While the mass of men are poor, 
 Naked truth grows more and more 
 
 UncontroU'd ; 
 You had never yet, I guess, 
 Any praise for ba^hfulness, 
 You can visit sans court-dress, — 
 
 Hunger and Cold ! 
 
 While the music fell and rose, 
 And the dance reel'd to its close, 
 Where her round of costly woes 
 
 Fashion stroU'd, 
 I beheld with shuddering fear 
 Wolves' eyes through the windows peer ; 
 Little dream they you are near, — 
 
 Hunger and Cold ! 
 
172 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 'NVhen tho toiler's heart yon clutcli, 
 Conscience is not valued much. 
 He recks not a bloody smutch 
 
 On his gold : 
 Every thing to you defers, 
 Tou are potent reasoners, 
 At your whisper Treason stirs, — 
 
 Hunger and Cold ! 
 
 Eude comparisons you draw, 
 Words refuse to sate your maw, 
 Tour gaunt limbs the cobweb law 
 
 Cannot hold ; 
 You're not clogg'd with foolish pride, 
 But can seize a right denied ; 
 Somehow God is on your side, — 
 
 Hunger and Cold ! 
 
 Tou respect no hoary wrong 
 More for having friumph'd long ; 
 Its past victims, haggard throng. 
 
 From the mould 
 Tou unbury ; swords and spears 
 Weaker are than poor men's tears, 
 Weaker than your silent years, — 
 
 Hunger and Cold. 
 
 Let them guard both hall and bower ; 
 Through the vdndow you vrill glower, 
 Patient till your reckoning hour 
 
 Shall be toU'd; 
 Cheeks are pale, but hands are red. 
 Guiltless blood may chance be shed. 
 But ye must and will be fed, — 
 
 Hunger and Cold ! 
 
 God has plans man must not spoil, — 
 Some were made to starve and toil. 
 Some to share the wine and oil. 
 We are told ; 
 
JAMES EXJSSELL LOWELL. 173 
 
 Devil's theories are these, 
 Stifling hope and love and peace. 
 Framed your hideous lusts to please, — 
 Hunger and Cold ! 
 
 Scatter ashes on thy head, 
 Tears of burning sorrow shed. 
 Earth ! and he by Pity led 
 
 To Love's fold : 
 Ere they block the very door 
 With lean corpses of the XJOor, 
 And will hush for naught but gore. 
 
 Hunger and Cold ! 
 
 SEBE. 
 
 I SAW the twinkle of white feet, 
 
 I saw the flash of robes descending ; 
 
 Before her ran an influence fleet. 
 
 That boVd my heart like barley bending. 
 
 As, in bare fields, the searching bees 
 Pilot to blooms beyond our finding. 
 It led me on, — ^by sweet degrees, 
 Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. 
 
 Those graces were that seem'd grim fates ; 
 With nearer love the sky lean'd o'er me ; 
 The long-sought secret's golden gates 
 On musical hinges swung before me. 
 
 I saw the brimm'd bowl in her grasp 
 Thrilling with godhood ; like a lover, 
 I sprang the profier'd life to clasp : 
 The beaker fell, the luck was over. 
 
 The earth has drunk the vintage up; 
 What boots it patch the goblet's splinters ? 
 Can Summer fill the icy cup 
 Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's? 
 
174 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 spendtkrift haste ! Await tlio gods ; 
 Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience. 
 Haste scatters on unthankful sods 
 The immortal gift in vain libations. 
 
 Coy Hehe flies from those that woo, 
 
 And shuns the hands would seize upon her ; 
 
 Follow thy life, and she will sue 
 
 To pour for thee the cup of honour ! 
 
 TO TEE DANDELION. 
 
 Dear common flower ! that growest beside the waj'. 
 Fringing the dusty road wdth harmless gold. 
 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold. 
 
 High-hearted buccaueers, o'erioj''d that they 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
 
 ^Vhich not the rich earth's ample round 
 May match in wealth, — thou art more dear to me 
 Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 
 
 Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 
 Through the primeval hush of Indian seas. 
 
 Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
 Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
 
 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand. 
 
 Though most hearts never understand 
 To take it at God's value, but pass by 
 The ofier'd "n-ealth vrith unrewarded eye. 
 
 Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
 To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 
 
 The eyes thou givest me 
 Are in the heart, and heed not space or time ; 
 
 Not in mid June the golden-cuirass'd bee 
 Feels a more summer-like vs^arm ravishment 
 In the white lily's breezy tent, 
 His conquer'd Sybaris, than I, when first 
 From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 
 
J4MES EUSSELL LOWELL. 175 
 
 Then tliiiik I of deep shadows on the grass,^ — 
 Of meadows where in sim the cattle graze, 
 
 Where, as the breezes pass, 
 The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, — 
 
 Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
 r whiten in the wind, — of waters blue 
 
 That from the distance sparkle through 
 Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above, 
 ^Yhere one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 
 
 My childhood's earliest thoughts are link'd with thee ; 
 The sight.of thee calls back the robin's song, 
 
 Who, from the dark old tree 
 Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. 
 
 And I, secure in childish piety, 
 Listen'd as if I heard an angel sing 
 
 With nevrs from heaven, which he did bring 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears. 
 When birdi and flowers and I were happy peers. 
 
 How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, 
 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! 
 
 Thou teachest me to deem 
 More sacredly of every human heart, 
 
 Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
 Of heaven, and could some w^ondrous secret show 
 Did we but pay the love we owe, 
 And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
 On all these living pages of Grod's book. 
 
 WHAT MB. ROBINSON TBINKS. 
 
 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. 
 
 Eobinson he 
 
 Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 
 
176 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 My ! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? 
 
 We can't never clioose him, o'course, — thet's flat; 
 Guess we shall Lev to come round (don't 3'ou ?) 
 An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; 
 Fer John P. 
 Eobinson he 
 Sez he WTint vote fer Guvener B. 
 
 Gineral C. is a dreffle smai-t man : 
 
 He's ben on all sides that give places or pelf; 
 But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, — 
 He's ben true to one party — an' thet is himself; 
 So John P. 
 Eobinson he 
 Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 
 
 Gineral C. goes in fer the war ; 
 
 He don't vally principle more'n an old end ; 
 What did God make us raytional creeturs fer. 
 But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood ? 
 So John P. 
 Eobinson he 
 Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 
 
 We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,^ 
 With, good old idees o' vsTit's right an' wnt 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. 
 Eobinson he 
 Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. 
 
 The side of our country must oilers he took, 
 
 An' President Polk, you know, lie is our country ; 
 An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book 
 Puts the debit to Hm, an' to us the per contry ; 
 An' John P. 
 Eobinson he 
 Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 177 
 
 Parson Wilbur he calls all tliese argimunts lies, 
 
 Sez they're notliin' on airth hut ^est fee, faw, fum ; 
 An' thet all this big talk of onr destinies 
 Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum. 
 But John P. 
 Eobiuson he 
 Sez it ain't no sech thing ; an', of course, so must we. 
 
 Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life 
 
 Thet th' Apostles rigg'd out in their swaller-tail coats, 
 An' march'd round in front of a drum an' a fife. 
 To git some on 'em office, and some on 'em votes ; 
 But John P. 
 Eobinson he 
 Sez they didn't know ever3'thin' 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 drive the world's team vsren it gits in a slough ; 
 Fer John P. 
 Eobiuson he 
 Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee ! 
 
 THE COURTISr. 
 
 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' peek'd in thru' the winder, 
 
 An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
 'Ith no one nigh to bender. 
 
 A fireplace fill'd 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'. 
 
178 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 The "wa'nut logs sliot spartles out 
 Towards f he pootiest, bless her ! 
 
 An' leetle flames danced all about 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 Agin the chimbley crook-neclcs hung, 
 
 An' in amongst 'em rusted 
 The ole queen's-arm thot gran'ther Young 
 
 Fetch'd back from Concord busted. 
 
 The ■very room, coz she was in, 
 Seem'd warm from floor to ceilin', 
 
 An' she look'd full ez rosy agin 
 Ez the apples she was peelin'. 
 
 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 
 
 On sech a blessed cretur, 
 A dogrose blusMn' 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 spark'd 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 curl'd maple. 
 
 The side she bresli'd 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 Hundred ring, 
 
 She hww'd the Lord was nigher. 
 
 An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer. 
 When her new meetin'-bunnet 
 
JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 179 
 
 Felt someliow thru' its crown a pair 
 0' blue eyes sot upon it. 
 
 Thet niglit, I tell ye, she look'd some ! 
 
 She seem'd toVe gut a new soul, 
 For she felt sartin-snre he'd come, 
 
 Down to her very shoe-sole. 
 
 She heer'd a foot, an' tnow'd it tu, 
 
 A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
 All ways to once her feelin's flew 
 
 Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 
 
 He kin' o' I'iter'd 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 wish'd him furder, 
 An' on her apples kep' to ^tvork, 
 
 Parin' away like murder. 
 
 " Tou 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 act 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 fut fust, 
 
 Then stood a spell on t'other. 
 An' on ■which one he felt the wnst 
 
 He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 
 
 Says he — " I'd better call agin ; " 
 Says she — " Think likely, Mister ! " 
 
 That last word prick'd him like a pin, 
 An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her. 
 
180 rOETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 When ]\Ia bimeloy upon 'em slips, 
 
 Huldj"^ sot pale ez ashes, 
 All kin' o' smily ronn' the lips 
 
 An' teary roun' the lashes. 
 
 For she -u-as jes' the quiet kind 
 
 ^Vhose naturs never vary. 
 Like streams that keep a summer miud 
 
 Snow-hid in Jenooarj'^. 
 
 The Hood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
 Too tight for all espressin', 
 
 Tell mother see how metters stood. 
 And gin 'em both her hlessin'. 
 
 Then her red come back like the tide 
 Down to the Bay o' Fuiidy ; 
 
 An' all I know is they was ciied 
 In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 
 
 TUSSOUF. 
 
 A STRANGER Came one night to Yussouf s tent, 
 Saj-ing — " Behold one outcast and in dread, 
 Against whose life the bow of power is bent. 
 Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head ; 
 I come to thee for shelter and for food, 
 To Tussouf, call'd through all our tribes The Good." 
 
 " This tent is mine " — said Tussouf — " but no more 
 
 Than it is God's ; come in, and be at peace ; 
 
 Freely shalt thou partake of all my store 
 
 As I of His who buildeth over these 
 
 Our tents His glorious roof of night and day. 
 
 And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay." 
 
 So Tussouf entertain'd his guest that night. 
 And, waking him ere day, said — " Here is gold ; 
 My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight : 
 Depart before the prying day grow bold ! " 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 181 
 
 As ouo lamp lights another, nor grows less, 
 So nobleness enkindleth nobleness. 
 
 That inward light the slrunger's fuce made grand. 
 Which shines from all self-conquest; kneeling low. 
 He bow'd his forehead upon Yussouf s hand, 
 Sobbing — " Sheik, I cannot leave thee so ; 
 I will rej)ay thee ; all this thou hast done 
 Unto that Ibrahim who slew th}' son ! " 
 
 " Take thrice the gold ! " said Yussouf — " for with thee 
 
 Into the desert, never to return, 
 
 Mj- one black thought shall ride awa}' from me. 
 
 First-born ! for whom by day and night I yearn, — 
 
 Balanced and just are all of God's decrees. 
 
 Thou art avenged, my first-born ! sleep in peace ! " 
 
 SHE CAME AND WENT. 
 
 As a twig trembles which a bird 
 
 Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 
 
 So is my memory thrill'd and stirr'd : 
 I only know She came and went. 
 
 As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
 The blue dome's measureless content, 
 
 So my soul held that moment's heaven : 
 I only know She came and went. 
 
 As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps 
 The orchards full of bloom and scent, 
 
 So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; 
 I only know She came and went. 
 
 An angel stood and met my gaze, 
 
 Through the low doorwaj' of my tent ; 
 
 The tent is struck, the vision stays ; 
 I only know She came and went. 
 
182 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 0, when the room grows slowly dim, 
 And life's last oil is nearly spent, 
 
 One gush of light these ej^es will brim, 
 Only to think She came and went. 
 
 TEE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 
 
 The snow had begun in the gloaming. 
 
 And busily all the night 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 
 With a silence deep and white. 
 
 Every pine and fir and hemlock 
 "Wore ermine too dear for an earl. 
 
 And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
 Was lidged inch deep with pearl. 
 
 From sheds new^-roof d with Carrara 
 Came Chanticleer's muffled crow ; 
 
 The stiff rails were soften'd to swan's-down. 
 And still flutter'd down the snow. 
 
 I stood and watch'd by the window 
 
 The noiseless work of the sky. 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
 
 Like brown leaves whirling by. 
 
 I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 Where a little headstone stood; 
 
 How the flakes were folding it gently. 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 
 
 Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
 
 Saying — " Father ! who makes it snow ? " 
 And I told of the good All-Father 
 
 Who cares for us here below. 
 
 Again I look'd at the snow-fall, 
 And thought of the leaden sky 
 
MAMA WHITE LOWELL. 183 
 
 That arch'd o'er our first great sorrow, 
 When, that mound was heap'd so high. 
 
 I remember'd t]\e gradual patience 
 That fell from that cloud like snow, 
 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 
 
 And again to the child I whisper'd, 
 
 " The snow that liusheth all, 
 Darling ! the merciful Father 
 
 Alone can make it fall ! " 
 
 Then, with eyes that saw not, I kiss'd her ; 
 
 And she, kissing hack, could not know 
 That my kiss was given to her sister. 
 
 Folded close tinder deepening snow. 
 
 MAEIA WHITE LOWELL.* 
 
 Bom at Watertown, Mass : 1821— died 1853. 
 TSE MOBNING-GLOBT. 
 
 We wreath'd about our darling's head 
 
 The morning-glory bright ; 
 Her little face look'd out beneath. 
 
 So full of life and light. 
 So lit as with a sunrise, 
 
 That we could only say, 
 " She is the morning-glory true, 
 
 And her poor types are they." 
 
 So always, from that happy time. 
 
 We call'd her by their name ; 
 And very fitting did it seem. 
 
 For sure as morning came. 
 Behind her cradle bars she smiled 
 
 To catch the first faint ray. 
 As from the trellis smiles the flower 
 
 And opens to the day. 
 * See Note 21. 
 
184 POETRY OF AJtfERICA. 
 
 But not so beautiful they rear 
 
 Their airy cups of blue. 
 As tum'd lier sweet ej'es to the light, 
 
 Brimm'd with sleep's tender dew ; 
 And not so close their tendrils fine 
 
 Eouud their supports are thrown. 
 As those dear arniK whose outstretoh'd plea 
 
 Clasp'd all hearts to her own. 
 
 We used to think how she had come. 
 
 Even as conies the flower, — 
 The last and perfect added gift 
 
 To crown Love's morning hour; 
 And how in her was imaged forth 
 
 The love we could not say, 
 As on the little dew-drops round 
 
 Shines back the heart of day. 
 
 "We never could have thought, God ! 
 
 That she must wither up. 
 Almost before a day was flown. 
 
 Like the morning-glory's cup ; 
 "We never thought to see her droop 
 
 Her fair and noble head. 
 Till she lay stretch'd before our eyes : 
 
 Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 
 
 The morning-glory's blossoming 
 
 Will soon be coming round ; 
 We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves 
 
 Upspringing from the ground. 
 The tender things the Winter kill'd 
 
 Renew again their birth : 
 But the glory of our morning 
 
 Has pass'd away from earth. 
 
 Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 
 Stretch over thy green plain I 
 
 Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, 
 Her spirit to sustain ! 
 
MARIA AVHITE LOWELL. 185 
 
 But up in groves of Paradise 
 
 Full surely we shall see 
 Our Morniiig-Glory beautiful 
 
 T-wiue round our dear Lord's knee. 
 
 AN OPIUM FANTASY. 
 
 Soft liangs tlie opiate in the brain, 
 And lulling soothes the edge of pain. 
 Till harshest sound, far off or near. 
 Sings floating in its mellow sphere. 
 
 "What wakes me from my heavy dream ? 
 
 Or am I still asleep? 
 Those long and soft vibrations seem 
 
 A slumberous cliarm to keep. 
 
 The graceful play, a moment stopt. 
 
 Distance again unrolls. 
 Like silver balls, that, softly dropt, 
 
 Eing into golden bowls. 
 
 I question of the poppies red. 
 
 The fairy flaunting band, 
 While I, a weed with drooping head, 
 
 Within their phalanx stand : — 
 
 " Some airy one, with scai'let cap, 
 The name unfold to me 
 Of this new minstrel who can lap 
 Sleep in his melody ! " 
 
 Bright grew their scarlet-kerchief d heads. 
 As freshening w^inds had blown, 
 
 And from their gently-swaying beds 
 They sang in undertone : — 
 
 " Oh he is but a little owl. 
 
 The smallest of his kin. 
 
186 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Wlio sits beneath the midnight's cowl 
 And makes this aii'3' din." 
 
 " Deceitful tongiies of fiery tints ! 
 
 Far more than this ye know, — 
 That he is your enchanted prince 
 Doom'd as an owl to go ; — 
 
 " Nor his fond play for years hath stopt, 
 But nightljr he nnroUs 
 His silver balls, that, softly dropt, 
 Eing into golden bowls." 
 
 THOMAS WILLIAM PAESONS. 
 
 Born at Boston, Mass : 1819 — 
 ON A BUST OF I) ANTE. 
 
 See, from this counterfeit of him 
 Whom Arno shall remember long, 
 How stern of lineament, how grim, 
 The father was of Tuscan song ! 
 There but the burning sense of wrong. 
 Perpetual care, and scorn, abide, — 
 Small friendship for the lordly throng. 
 Distrust of all the world beside. 
 
 Faithful if this wan image be, 
 
 No dream his life was — but a fight ; 
 
 Could any Beatrice see 
 
 A lover in that anchorite? 
 
 To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight 
 
 Who conld have gness'd the visions came 
 
 Of Beanty, veil'd with heavenly light, 
 
 In circles of eternal flame ? 
 
 The lips as Cumse's cavern close, 
 The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, 
 The rigid front, almost morose. 
 But for the patient hope within, — 
 
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 1S7 
 
 Declare a life wliose course hatli been 
 Unsullied still, thougb still severe ; 
 Whicli, through the wavering days of sin 
 Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 
 
 Not wholly such his haggard look 
 When wandering once, forlorn, he stray'd, 
 With no comjDanion save his book, 
 To Corvo's hush'd monastic shade; 
 Where, as the Benedictine laid 
 His palm upon the pilgrim guest. 
 The single boon for which he pray'd 
 The convent's charity was rest. 
 
 Peace dwells not here, — this rugged face 
 Betrays no spirit of repose ; 
 The sullen warrior sole we trace, 
 The marble man of many ■woes. 
 Such was his mien when first arose 
 The thought of that strange tale divine, — 
 When hell he peopled with his foes, 
 The scourge of many a guilty line. 
 
 War to the last he waged with all 
 The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; 
 Baron and duke, in hold and hall, 
 Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; 
 He used Rome's harlot for bis mirth ; 
 Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 
 But valiant souls of knightly worth 
 Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 
 
 0, Time ! whose verdicts mock our own. 
 The only righteous judge art thou ; 
 That poor, old exile, sad and lone, 
 Is Latium's other Virgil now. 
 Before his name the nations bow ; 
 His words are parcel of mankind. 
 Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. 
 The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 
 
188 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 SAINT PER AY. 
 
 Wlien to any eaint I praj', 
 It shall be to Saiut Peray. 
 He alone, of all the brood, 
 Ever did me any good : 
 Many I have tried that are 
 Humbugs in the calendar. 
 
 On the Atlantic, faint and sick. 
 Once I pray'd Saint Dominick : 
 He V7as holj', sure, and wise ; — 
 Was't not he that did devise 
 Auto-da-Fes and rosaries ? — 
 But for one in my condition 
 This good saint was no physician. 
 
 Next, in pleasant Normandie, 
 I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
 In the great cathedral, where 
 
 All the ancient kings repose ; 
 But, how I was swindled there 
 
 At the " Golden Fleece," — he knows ! 
 
 In my wanderings, vague and various, 
 Eeaching Naples, — as I lay 
 Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 
 I besought Saint Januarius. 
 But I was a fool to try him ; 
 Naught I said could liquefy him ; 
 And I swear he did me wrong. 
 Keeping me shut up so long 
 In that pest-house, with obscene 
 Jews and Greeks and things unclean : — 
 What need had I of quarantine ? 
 
 In Sicily at least a score, — 
 In Spain about as many more, — 
 And in Rome almost as many 
 As the loves of Don Giovanni, — 
 
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. ISO 
 
 Did I pray to — sans reply ; 
 Devil take the tribe ! — said L 
 
 Worn with travel, tired and lame, 
 
 To Assisi's walls I came ; 
 
 Sad and full of home-sick fancies, 
 
 I address 'd me to Saint Francis ; 
 
 But the beggar never did 
 
 Any thing as he was bid, 
 
 Never gave me aught — but fleas, — ■ 
 
 Plenty had I at Assise. 
 
 But in Provence, near Vancluse, 
 
 Hard by the Ehone, I found a Saint 
 
 Gifted with a wondrous juice. 
 Potent for the worst complaint. 
 
 'Twas at Avignon that first — 
 
 In the witching time of thirst — 
 
 To my brain the knowledge came 
 
 Of this blessed Catholic's name ; 
 
 Forty miles of dust that day 
 
 Made me welcome Saint Peray. 
 
 Though till then I had not heard 
 Aught about him, ere a third 
 Of a litre pass'd my lips. 
 All saints else w^ere in eclipse. 
 For his gentle spirit glided 
 
 With such magic into mine. 
 That methought such bliss as I did 
 
 Poet never drew from wine. 
 
 Best he gave me, and refection, — 
 
 Chasten'd hopes, calm retrospection, — 
 
 Soften'd images of sorrow. 
 
 Bright forebodings for the morrow, — 
 
 Charity for what is past, — 
 
 Faith in something good at last. 
 
 Now, why should any almanack 
 The name of this good creature lack ? 
 
190 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Or wherefore should the breviary 
 
 Omit a Saint so sage and merry ? 
 
 The Pope himself should grant a day 
 
 Especially to Saint Peray. 
 
 But, since no day hath been appointed, 
 
 On purpose, by the Lord's Anointed, 
 
 Let us not -wait, — we'll do him right ; 
 
 Send round your bottles, Hal ! and set your night. 
 
 DIRGE. * 
 
 What shall we do now, Mary being dead, 
 Or say, or write, that shall express the half? 
 
 What can we do but pillow that fair head 
 And let the spring-time write her epitaph ? 
 
 As it will soon in snow-drop, violet, 
 
 Wind-flower, and columbine, and maiden's tear,- 
 Each letter of that pretty alphabet 
 
 That spells in flowers the pageant of the year. 
 
 She was a maiden for a man to love, 
 She was a woman for a husband's life, 
 
 One that had leam'd to value far above 
 
 The name of Love the sacred name of Wife. 
 
 Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep. 
 Had all there is of life — except gray hairs : 
 
 Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep. 
 And that mysterious tie a Mother bears. 
 
 She hath fulfill'd her promise and hath past. 
 
 Set her down gently at the iron door ! 
 Eyes ! look on that loved image for the last : 
 
 Now cover it in earth — ^her earth no more ! 
 
 • See Note 22. 
 
WILLIAM EOSS WALLACE. 191 
 
 SWALLOWS. 
 
 Chimney swallows ! homeward hie ! 
 
 Tou shall have my Lady's eye 
 
 To look and love you, now and then, 
 
 When she lays down her book or pen, 
 
 Shut wholly from the world of men. 
 
 In her chamber if you build, 
 
 With her smile you shall be fill'd : 
 
 Nevermore will j'ou desire 
 
 To wander from her happy fire. 
 
 But fluttering in your new-found nest 
 
 Say to each other — " Here we rest ! " 
 
 0, had I but your pinions, too ! 
 Pull well I know what I would do. 
 I know where I would dwell to-night. 
 Where lamp and fire and eyes are bright, 
 And where the music never fails. 
 Even if the instrument be still. 
 There is a music that prevails 
 Beyond the master's highest skill : 
 Such harmony as flows from love — 
 Not passionate — but full of peace ; 
 Past understanding, and above 
 Music, — most felt when that doth cease. 
 
 WILLIAM EOSS WALLACE. 
 Bom at Lexington, Kentucky, 1819 — 
 
 TEE GODS OF OLD. 
 
 Not realmless sit the ancient gods 
 
 Upon their misty thrones. 
 
 In that old glorious Grecian heaven 
 
 Of regal zones 
 
 A languor on their awful forms may lie, 
 
 And a deep grief upon their large white brows, 
 
192 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Kiiig-dwellers of the sky. 
 
 But still thej^ show the might of God, 
 
 lu mstless panoply. 
 
 They cannot fade, though other creeds 
 
 Came burden'd with their curse, 
 
 And One's apotheosis was 
 
 A darken'd universe ; 
 
 Xo tempest heralded the orient light ; 
 
 No fiery portent walk'd the solemn night ; 
 
 Ivo conqueror's blood-red banner -was unfiirl'd ; 
 
 Ko volcan shook its "warning torch on high; 
 
 No earthquake tore the pulses of the world ; 
 
 No pale suns -wander'd through the swarthy sky ; 
 
 Only the silent Spheres 
 
 Amid the darkness shed some joj'ous tears ; 
 
 And then, as rainbows come, it came 
 
 With morning's lambent iiame. 
 
 The Stars look'd from their palaces, whose spires 
 
 And windows caught afar the prophet-glow. 
 
 And bade their choirs sing to the sweetest lyres, 
 
 " Peace and good will unto the orb below ! " 
 
 The nionarchs shudder'd and turn'd sick at heart ; 
 
 And from their bright hands fell 
 
 Gemm'd sceptres with a thunderous sound 
 
 Before the miracle : 
 
 Ah ! sick at soul : — but they, the bards, 
 
 Song's calm immortals in the eclipse, 
 
 Throng'd up and held the nectar-cup 
 
 To their pale lips ; 
 
 And each, with an eager, fond look, stirr'd 
 
 Certain melodious strings, 
 
 While the startled tempest-bearing bird. 
 
 Poised tremblingly his "wings : 
 
 Then loftier still their harps resounded. 
 
 And louder yet their voices roll'd 
 
 Between the arches, and rebounded 
 
 Dreamily from the roof of gold : 
 
 " Te cannot leave your throned spheres, 
 Though faith is o'er, 
 
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. 193 
 
 And a mightier One tlian Jove appears 
 
 On Earth's expectant shore ! " 
 
 Slowly the daring words went trampling through the 
 
 halls — 
 " Not in the earth, nor hell, nor sky, 
 The IDEAL, ye gods ! can ever die. 
 But to the soul of man immortal calls. 
 
 " Still, Jove, suhlime, shall wrap 
 His awful forehead in Olympian shrouds. 
 Or take along the heavens' daik w^ilderness 
 His thunder-chase behind the hunted clouds : 
 And mortal eyes upturned shall behold 
 Apollo's rustling robe of gold 
 Sweep through the corridors of the ancient sky 
 That kindling speaks its Deity : 
 And HE, the ruler of the sunless land 
 Of restless gho-ts, shall fitfully illume 
 With smouldering fires that stir in cavem'd eyes 
 Hell's house of shuddering gloom : 
 Still the ethereal huntress, as of old. 
 Shall roam amid the sacred Latmos mountains. 
 And lave her virgin limbs in waters cold 
 That earth holds up for her in marble fountains ; 
 And in his august dreams along the Italian streams. 
 The poor old throneless god, with angry frown. 
 Will feebly grasp the air for his lost crown, — 
 Then murmur sadly low of his great overthrow : 
 And wrapp'd in sounding mail shall he appear, 
 War's giant charioteer, — 
 And where the conflict reels 
 
 Urge through the swaying lines his crashing wheels ; 
 Or pause to list, amid the horrent shades. 
 The deep hoarse cry of battle's thirsty blades. 
 Led by the hungry spear, — 
 Till at the weary combat's close 
 They gave their passionate thanks, 
 Amid the panting ranks of conquer'd foes ; 
 Then, drunken with their king's red wine, 
 Go swooning to repose around his purple shrine. 
 
 o 
 
194 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 '• And He, the tiident-Avielder, still shall see 
 Th"?. adoring billows kneel around his feet, 
 While at his call the winds in ministry 
 Before their altar of the Tempest meet : 
 Or, leaning gentlj' o'er the Paphian isles, 
 Cheer'd by the music of some Triton's horn, 
 Lift up the shadowy ciiitains of the night 
 To their hid window-tops above. 
 And bathe thj- drowsy eyelids with the light. 
 Voluptuous queen of love ! 
 And thou, ah, thou ! 
 Bom of the w^hite sea-foam 
 
 That dreams a- troubled still around thy home, — 
 Awaking from thy slumbers, thou shalt press 
 Thy passionate lips on his resplendent brow 
 In some sweet, lone recess, 
 
 ^Vhere ■waters murmur and the dim leaves bow : 
 And j'oung Exdymion 
 At midnight's pallid noon 
 Shall still be charmed from his de^v3'■ sleep 
 By the foolish, lovesick Moon, 
 Who thrills to find him iu some lovely vale 
 Before her silver lamp niay fail : 
 And Pan shall play his pleasant reed 
 Down in the hush'd arcades. 
 And fauns shall prank the sward amid 
 Thessalia's sunny shades. 
 
 " Nor absent She vrhose eyes of azure throw 
 Truth's sunburst on the world below : 
 Still shall she calmly watch the choral years 
 Circling fast the beamy spheres 
 That tremble as she marches through their plains, 
 While momently rolls cut a sullen sound 
 From Error's hoary mountains tumbling round, — 
 Heard by the Titan, who from his high rock, 
 Filled with immortal pains 
 That his immortal spirit still can mock. 
 Exultant sees, — despite the oppressor's ixe. 
 The frost, the heat, the vulture, and the storm, — 
 
WILLIAJI EOSS WALLACE. 195 
 
 Earth's ancient vales rejoicing in his fire, 
 
 The homes, the Iotcs of men, — those beings wrought 
 
 To many a beauteous form 
 
 In. the grand quiet of his own great thought : 
 
 And over all, bright, beautiful, serene, 
 
 And. changeless in thy prime. 
 
 Thou, Psyche ! glorj^-cinctured, shalt be seen, 
 
 Whispering for ever that one word sublime, 
 
 Down through the peopled gallery of Time, — 
 
 ' Eternity 1 ' — in whose dread cycles stand 
 
 Men and their deities, alike, on common land." 
 
 Like far-off stars that glimmer in a cloud. 
 Deathless, O Gods ! shall ye illume the past ; 
 To you the poet-voice will cry aloud. 
 Faithful among the faithless, to the last — 
 " Ye must not die ! " 
 Long as the dim robes of the ages trail 
 O'er Delphi's steep or Tempo's flowery vale — 
 Ye sliall not die ! 
 
 Though time and storm j'our calm old temples rend. 
 And, rightly, men to our " One only " bend, — 
 Ye were the things in which the ancient mind 
 Its darkling sense of Deity enshrined. 
 To Sinai still Olympus reverent calls. 
 And Ida leans to hear Mount Zion's voice : 
 Gods of the past ! your shapes are in our halls ; 
 Upon our clime your mighty presence falls, 
 And Christian hearts with Grecian souls rejoice. 
 
 EL AMm~THE FAITHFUL. 
 
 Who is this that comes from Hara ? not in kingly pomp 
 
 and pride. 
 But a great free son of Nature, lion-souTd and eagle-eyed : 
 
 Who is this before whose presence idols tumble to the 
 
 sod? 
 While he cries out — " Allah Akbar ! and there is no god 
 
 but God ! " 
 
196 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Wandering in the solemn desert, he has wonder'd like a child 
 Not as yet too proud to wonder, at the sun and star and -wild. 
 
 " O, thou Moon! who made thy brightness? Stars! who 
 
 hung ye there on high? 
 Answer ! so my soul may worship : I must worship, or I die." 
 
 Then there fell the brooding silence that precedes the 
 
 thunder's roll ; 
 And the old Arabian Whirlwind called another Arab soul. 
 
 Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp 
 
 and piide. 
 But a great ft-ee son of Nature, lion-soul'd and eagle-eyed : 
 
 He has stood and seen Mount Hara to the Awful Presence 
 
 nod; 
 He has heard from cloud and lightning — " Know there is 
 
 no god but God ! " 
 
 Call ye this man "an impostor?" — He was call'd Tlie 
 
 Faithful, when 
 A boy he wander'd o'er the deserts, by the wild-eyed Arab 
 
 men. 
 
 He was always call'd The Faithful. Truth he knew was 
 
 Allah's breath ; 
 But the Lie w^ent darkly gnashing through the corridore of 
 
 Death. 
 
 " He was fierce ! " — Tes ! fierce at falsehood, — ^fierce at 
 
 hideous bits of wood 
 That the Koreish taught the people made the sun and 
 
 solitude. 
 
 But his heart was also gentle; and affection's graceful 
 
 palm, 
 Waving in his tropic spirit, to the weary brought a balm. 
 
 " Precepts ? " — Have on each compassion ! Lead the 
 
 stranger to j'our door ! 
 In your dealings keep up justice ! Give a tenth unto the 
 
 poor! 
 
WILLIAil WETMORE STORY. 197 
 
 " Yet, ambitious ! " — Yes ! ambitious — while he heard the 
 
 calm, and sweet 
 Aidenn-voices sing — to trample conquer'd Hell beneath 
 
 his feet. 
 
 " Islam ? "—Yes ! submit to heaven !—" Prophet ? "—To 
 
 the East thou art ! 
 What are prophets but the trumpets blown, by God to stir 
 
 the heart ? 
 
 And the great Heart of the Desert stirr'd unto that solemn 
 
 strain 
 Eolling from the trump at Hara over Error's troubled main. 
 
 And a hundred dusky millions honor still El Amin's rod, 
 Daily chaunting — "Allah Akbar! know there is no god 
 but God!" 
 
 Call him then no more Impostor ! Mecca is the Choral 
 
 Gate 
 Where, till Zion's noon shall take them, nations in the 
 
 mornins wait. 
 
 WILLIAM WETMOEE STOEY. 
 
 Born at Salem, Mass : 1819 — 
 
 FBAXITELES AND PSRYNE. 
 
 A THOUSAND silent years ago. 
 
 The twilight, faint and pale. 
 Was drawing o'er the sunset glow 
 
 Its soft and shadowy veil ; 
 
 When from his work the Sculptor stayed 
 His hand, and, turn'd to one , 
 
 Who stood beside him, half in shade. 
 Said, with a sigh — " 'Tis done ! 
 
 " Thus much is saved from chance and change. 
 
 That waits for me and thee ; 
 Thus much — ^how little ! from the range 
 
 Of Death and Destiny. 
 
198 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 " Phiyne ! thy liuman lips shall pale, 
 
 Thy rounded limhs decay, — 
 Nor love nor prayers can aught avail 
 
 To bid thy beauty stay; 
 
 " But there thy smile for centuries 
 
 On marble lips shall live, — ■ 
 For Art can grant what love denies. 
 
 And fix the fugitive. 
 
 " Sad thought ! nor age nor death shall fade 
 
 The youth of this cold bust ; 
 When this quick brain and hand that made. 
 
 And thou and I are dust ! 
 
 " When all our hopes and fears are dead. 
 And both our hearts are cold. 
 
 And love is like a tune that's play'd, 
 And life a tale that's told, — 
 
 " This senseless stone, so coldly fair, 
 
 That love nor life can vrarm. 
 The same enchanting look shall wear. 
 
 The same enchanting form. 
 
 " Its peace no sorrow shall desti-oy ; 
 
 Its beauty age shall spare 
 The bitterness of vanish'd joy, 
 
 The wearing waste of care. 
 
 " And there upon that silent face 
 
 Shall unborn ages see 
 Perennial youth, perennial grace. 
 
 And seal'd serenity. 
 
 " And strangers, when we sleep in peace. 
 Shall say, not quite unmoved — 
 
 So smiled upon Praxiteles 
 The Phryne whom he loved." 
 
WALT WHITMAN. 199 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 ! FAIHT, delicious, spring-time violet, 
 
 Thine odour, like a key. 
 Turns noiselessly in ineicior3i''s wards to let 
 
 A thought of sorrow free. 
 
 The breath of distant fields upon my brow 
 
 Blows through that open door 
 The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low. 
 
 And sadder than of yore. 
 
 It comes afar, from that beloved place, 
 
 And that beloved hour, 
 When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, 
 
 Like grapes above a bower. 
 
 A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; 
 
 The lark sings o'er my head, 
 Drown'd in the sky ; O pass, ye visions ! pass : 
 
 I would that I were dead ! 
 
 "Why hast thou open'd that forbidden door 
 
 From which I ever flee? 
 vanish'd Joy ! Love, that art no more ! 
 
 Let my vex'd spirit be ! 
 
 violet ! thy odour through my bi'ain 
 
 Hath search'd, and stung to grief 
 This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 
 
 Thy velvet leaf. 
 
 WALT WHITMAN.* 
 
 Bom at West HUls, New York, 1819— 
 
 WITS ANTECEDENTS. 
 
 With antecedents ; 
 With my fathers and mothers, and the accumulations of 
 
 past ages ; 
 With all which, had it not been, I would not now be here, 
 as I am : 
 
 » See Note 23. 
 
200 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 With Eoy])t, India, Phenioia, Greece and Eome; 
 
 With the Kelt, the Scandinavian, the Alb, and the Saxon ; 
 
 "\\ ith antique maritime ventures, — with laws, artizanship, 
 
 ■^vars and journeys ; 
 "With the poet, the skald, the saga, the m3rth, and the 
 
 oraele ; 
 With the sale of slaves — with enthusiasts — with the 
 
 trouhadoui-, the crusader, and the monk ; 
 With those old continents whence ^vo have come to this 
 
 ne'w continent ; 
 With the fading kingdoms and kings over there ; 
 With the fading religions and priests; 
 With the small shores we look back to from our owri large 
 
 and present shores ; 
 With countless years drawing themselves onward, and 
 
 arrived at these years ; 
 You and Me arrived — America arrived, and making this 
 
 _ year; 
 This year ! sending itself ahead countless years to come. 
 
 but it is not the years — it is I — it is You ; 
 We touch all laws, and tally all antecedents ; 
 
 Vfe are the skald, the oracle, the monk, and the knight — 
 
 we easily include them, and more ; 
 We stand amid time, beginningless and endless — we stand 
 
 amid evil and good ; 
 All swings around us — there is as much darkness as 
 
 light; 
 The very sun swings itself and its sj'stem of planets 
 
 around us : 
 Its sun, and its again, all swing around us. 
 
 As for me (torn, stormy, even as I, amid these vehement 
 days) _ 
 
 1 have the idea of all, and am all, and believe in all; 
 
 I believe materialism is true, and spiritualism is true — 
 I reject no part. 
 
 Have I forgotten any part ? 
 
 Come to me, whoever and whatever, till I give you re- 
 coarnition. 
 
WALT WHITMAN. 201 
 
 I respect Assyria, China, Teutonia, and the Hebrews ; 
 
 I adopt each theory, mj'th, god, and demi-god ; 
 
 I see that the old accounts, bibles, genealogies, are true, 
 
 "without exception ; 
 I assert that all past daj's were what they should have 
 
 been; 
 And that they could no-how have been better than they 
 
 were. 
 And that to-day is what it should be — and that America is, 
 And that to-day and America could no-how be better than 
 
 they are. 
 
 In the name of These States, and in your and my name, 
 
 the Past, 
 And in the name of These States, and in your and my name, 
 
 the Present time. 
 
 I know that the past was great, and the future will be 
 
 gi'eat. 
 And I know that both curiously conjoint in the present 
 
 time, 
 (^For the sake of him I typify — for the common average 
 
 man's sake — your sake, if you are he ;) 
 And that where I am, or you are, this present day, there 
 
 is the centre of all days, all races. 
 And there is the meaning, to us, of all that has ever come 
 
 of races and days, or ever will come. 
 
 LONGINGS FOE HOME. 
 
 magnet-South ! glistening, perfumed South ! My 
 
 South i 
 quick mettle, rich blood, impulse, and love ! Good and 
 
 evil ! all dear to me ! 
 O dear to me my birth-things — All moving things, and 
 
 the trees where I was bom— the grains, plants, rivers ; 
 Dear to me my own slow sluggish rivers where they flow, 
 
 distant, over fiats of silvery sands, or through swamps ; 
 
202 POETRY OF A^MERICA. 
 
 Dear to me tlie Eoanoke, tlie Savannali, the Altamalia-s\% 
 the Podee, the Tonibigbee, the Santee, the Coosa, and 
 the Sabine ; 
 
 pensive, far away wandering, I rctimi ■\\'ith my Soul to 
 
 haunt their banks again ; 
 Again in Plorida I float on transparent lakes — I float on 
 the Okeechobee — I cross the hummock land, or 
 through pleasant openings, or dense forests ; 
 
 1 see the parrots in the woods — I see the papaw tree and 
 
 the blossoming titi ; 
 
 Again, sailing in my coaster, on deck, I coast off Georgia — 
 I coast up the Carolinas, 
 
 I see where the live-oak is growing — I see ^svhere the yellow- 
 pine, the scented bay-tree, the lemon and orange, the 
 cypress, the graceful palmetto ; 
 
 I pass rude sea-headlands and enter Pamlico Sound through 
 an inlet, and dart my vision inland ; 
 
 O the cotton plant ! the growing fields of rice, sugar, 
 hemp! 
 
 The cactus, guarded with thorns — the laurel-tree, with 
 large white flowers ; 
 
 The range afar — the richness and barrenness — the old 
 woods charged with mistletoe and trailing moss. 
 
 The piney odour and the gloom — the awful natural stillness, 
 (Here in these dense swamps the freebooter carries his 
 gun, and the fugitive slave has his conceal'd hut) ; 
 
 the strange fascination of these half-known, haK-impas- 
 sable swamps, infested b3'' reptiles, resounding with 
 the bellow of the alligator, the sad noises of the night- 
 owl and the vrild-cat, and the whirr of the rattlesnake ; 
 
 The mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing all the 
 forenoon — singing through the moon-lit night. 
 
 The humming-bird, the wild-turkey, the raccoon, the 
 opossum ; 
 
 A Tennessee corn-field — the tall, graceful, long-leaved 
 com — slender, flapping, bright green, with tassels — 
 with beautiful ears, each well-sheath'd in its husk ; 
 
 An Arkansas prairie — a sleeping lake, or still baj'ou ; 
 
 my heart ! tender and fierce pangs — I can stand them 
 not — I will depart ; 
 
^\'ALT WHITMAN. 203 
 
 O to be a Virginian, wliere I grew tip ! to bo a 
 
 Carolinian ! 
 longings irrepressible ! I will go back to old Tennessee, 
 
 and never wander more ! 
 
 PIONEERS! PIONEESS! 
 
 Come, my tan-faced cliildren ! 
 Follow well in order, get your ■weapons ready ; 
 Have you your pistols ? have you your sliarp-edged axes ? 
 Pioneers ! 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 ! pioneers ! 
 
 you youths, western youths. 
 So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friend- 
 ship; 
 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 ! pioneers ! 
 
 All the past we leave behind ; 
 We debouch upon a newer, miightier world, varied world ; 
 Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labour and 
 the march, 
 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
204 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 We detachments steady throwing, 
 Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains 
 
 steep. 
 Conquering, holding, daring, venturiag, as we go, the 
 unkno\VTi ways, 
 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
 We primeval forests felling, 
 We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the 
 
 mines within ; 
 We the surface broad surveying, and the virgin soil up- 
 hea-^ang. 
 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
 Colorado men are we, 
 Prom the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the 
 
 high plateaus, 
 Prom the mine and fiom the gully, from the hunting trail 
 we come. 
 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
 From ISTebraska, from Arkansas, 
 Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the con- 
 tinental blood intervein'd ; 
 All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all 
 the Northern, 
 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
 O resistless, restless race ! 
 O beloved race in all ! my breast aches with tender love 
 
 for all ! 
 O I mourn and yet exult — I am rapt with love for all, 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
 Eaise the mighty mother mistress. 
 Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the stany 
 
 mistress, (bend your heads all !) 
 Eaise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stem, impassive, 
 weapon'd mistress. 
 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
WALT WHITMAX. 205 
 
 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 ! pioneers ! 
 
 On and on, the compact ranks, 
 With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead 
 
 quickly fiU'd, 
 Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never 
 stopping, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 to die advancing on ! 
 
 Are there some of us to droop and die ? has the hour come ? 
 Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap 
 is fiU'd, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers I 
 
 All the pulses of the world, 
 Falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement 
 
 beat; 
 Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all 
 for us, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Life's involved and varied pageants. 
 All the forms and shovs^s, all the workmen at their work, 
 All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with 
 their slaves. 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 All the hapless silent lovers. 
 All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the 
 
 wicked, 
 All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the 
 dying, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 1 too with my soul and body. 
 
 We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way, 
 
206 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Tlirougli tliese shores, amid tlic shadows, witli tlie appari- 
 tions pressing, 
 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
 Lo ! the darting bowling orb ! 
 Lo ! tbe brother orbs around ! all the clustering suns and 
 
 planets ; 
 All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams, 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
 These aie of us, thej' are with us, 
 All for primal needed work, while the followers there in 
 
 embiyo wait behind, 
 AVe to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel 
 dealing, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 O you daughters of the west ! 
 you young and elder daughters ! you mothers and 
 
 you wives ! 
 Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united, 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Minstrels latent on the prairies ! 
 (Shrouded bards of other lands ! you may sleep — you have 
 
 done your work ;) 
 Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp 
 amid us. 
 
 Pioneers ! 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 ns the tame enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 Pioneers ! 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 ! pioneers ! 
 
VYALT WHITMAN. 207 
 
 Has the niglit 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 ! pioneers ! 
 
 Till Tvith sound of trumpet, 
 Far, far off the day-break call — hark ! how loud and clear 
 
 I hear it wind ; 
 Swift! to the head of the army! — swift! spring to your 
 places, 
 
 Pioneers ! pioneers ! 
 
 QUICKSAND YEAMS. 
 
 Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither, 
 
 Your schemes, politics, fail — lines give way — substances 
 m.ock and elude me ; 
 
 Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess'd soul, 
 eludes not ; 
 
 One's-self, must never give way — that is the final sub- 
 stance — that out of all is sure; 
 
 Out of politics, triumphs. Battles, death — what at last 
 finally remains ? 
 
 When shows break up, what but One's-Self is sure ? 
 
 THE BEESSEB. 
 
 An old man bending, I come, among new faces, 
 Years looking backward, resuming, in answer to children. 
 Come tell us old man ! as from young men and maidens that 
 
 love me ; 
 Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these 
 
 chances. 
 
20S POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Of unsurpass'd lieroes, (was one side so brave? the otlier 
 
 was equally brave) ; 
 Now be witness again — paint tlie mightiest armies of earth; 
 Of those aniiies so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to 
 
 tell us ? 
 What stays with you latest and deepest ? of curious panics. 
 Of hard-foutrht enoraKements, or sieges tremendous, what 
 
 deepest remains ? 
 
 maidens and young men I love, and that love me ! 
 
 "What you ask of my daj's, those the strangest and sudden 
 jj'our talking recalls; 
 
 Soldier alert I arrive, after a long march, cover'd with 
 sweat and dust ; 
 
 In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly 
 shout in the rush of successful charge ; 
 
 Enter the captured works .... yet lo ! like a swift- 
 running river, they fade ; 
 
 Pass and are gone, they fade — I dwell not on soldiers' 
 perils or soldiers' joys ; 
 
 (Both I remember well — many the hardships, few the joys, 
 yet I was content). 
 
 But in silence, in dream's projections, 
 
 While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on. 
 
 So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the im- 
 prints off the sand. 
 
 In nature's reverie sad, with hinged knees returning, I 
 enter the doors — (while for you up there. 
 
 Whoever you are, follow me without noise, and be of 
 strong heart). 
 
 Bearing the bandages, water and sponge. 
 Straight and swift to my wounded I go. 
 Where they lie on the gro^lnd, after the battle brought in ; 
 Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground ; 
 Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd 
 hospital ; 
 
WALT WHITMAN. 209 
 
 To tlie Ions; TOWS of cots, up and down, each side, I return; 
 To eacli and all, one after another, T draw near — not one 
 
 do I miss ; 
 An attendant follows, holding a tray — he carries a refuse 
 
 pail. 
 Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and 
 
 fill'd again. 
 
 I onward go, I stop. 
 With hinged knees and steady hand, to dress -wounds ; 
 I am firm with each — the pangs are sharp, j-et unavoidable; 
 One turns to me his appealing eyes — (poor boj^ ! I never 
 
 knew j'ou. 
 Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for j'ou, 
 
 if that would save you). 
 
 On, on I go — (Open, doors of time ! open hospital doors! ) 
 The crush'd head I dress (poor crazed hand, tear not the 
 
 bandage away) ; 
 The neck of the cavalry-man, with the bullet through and 
 
 through, I examine ; 
 Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, 
 
 yet life struggles hard ; 
 (Come,' sweet death ! be persuaded, beautiful death ! 
 In mercy come quickly). 
 
 Prom the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, 
 I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash oflf the 
 
 matter and blood ; 
 Back on his pillow the soldier bends, with curved neck, 
 
 and side-falling head ; 
 His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on 
 
 the bloody stump. 
 And has not yet look'd on it. 
 
 I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep ; 
 But a day or two more — for see, the frame all wasted and 
 
 sinking. 
 And the yellow- blue countenance see ! 
 
 p 
 
210 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet 
 
 wound, 
 Cleanse (he one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so 
 
 sickening, so offensive, 
 While the attendant stands behind aside me, holding the 
 
 tray and pail. 
 
 I am faithful, I do not give out ; 
 The fractured thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, 
 These and more I dress with impassive hand — (yet deep 
 in my breast a fire, a burning flame). 
 
 Thus in silence, in dream's projections. 
 Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the 
 
 hospitals ; 
 The hurt and the wounded I pacify with soothing hand, 
 I sit by the restless all the dark night — some are so j'oung; 
 Some suffer so much — I recall the experience sweet and 
 
 sad; 
 (Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd 
 
 and rested. 
 Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips). 
 
 BPIEIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE. 
 
 Spirit v^hose work is done ! spirit of dreadful hours ! 
 
 Ere, departing, fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets; 
 
 Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, (yet onward ever un- 
 faltering pressing) ; 
 
 Spirit of many a solemn day, and many a savage scene ! 
 Electric spirit ! 
 
 That with muttering voice, through the years now closed, 
 like a tireless phantom flitted. 
 
 Housing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and 
 beat the drum ; 
 
WALT WHITMAN. 211 
 
 Now, as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the 
 
 last, reverberates round me ; 
 As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from 
 
 the battles ; 
 While the muskets of the young men yet lean over their 
 
 shoulders ; 
 While I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders ; 
 While those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them, 
 
 appearing in the distance, approach and pass on, 
 
 returning homeward. 
 Moving with steady naotion, swaj'ing to and fro, to the 
 
 right and left. 
 Evenly, lightly rising and falling, as the steps keep time : 
 Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as 
 
 death next daj^ ; 
 Touch my mouth, ere you depart — press my lips close ! 
 Leave me your pulses of rage ! bequeath them to me ! fill 
 
 me with currents convulsive ! 
 Let them scorch and blister out of my chants, "^vhen you 
 
 are gone ; 
 Let them identify you to the future in these songs ! 
 
 THE CITY BEAD-HOUSE. 
 
 By the City Dead-House, by the gate, 
 
 As idly sauntering, wending my waj^ from the clangor, 
 
 I curious pause — for lo ! an outcast form, a poor dead 
 
 prostitute brought ; 
 Her corpse they deposit, unclaim'd, it lies on the damp 
 
 hrick pavement ; 
 The divine w^oman, her body — I see the Body — I look on it 
 
 alone. 
 That house once full of passion and beauty — all else I 
 
 notice not ; 
 Nor stillness so cold, nor running w^ater from faucet, nor 
 
 odours morbific impress me ; 
 But the house alone — that wondrous house, that delicate 
 
 fair house — that ruin ! 
 
212 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings 
 
 ever built ! 
 Or white-domed Capitol it-self, with the majestic figure 
 
 surmounted — or all the old high-spired cathedrals, 
 That little house alone, more than them all — poor, desperate 
 
 house ! 
 Fair, fearful wreck ! tenement of a Soul ! itself a Soul ! 
 Unclaim'd, avoided house ! take one breath from my 
 
 tremulous lips : 
 Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you. 
 Dead house of love ! house of madness and sin, crumbled ! 
 
 crush'd ! 
 House of life — erewhile talking and laughing — but ah, poor 
 
 house ! dead, even then ; 
 Months, years, an echoing, gamish'd house — -but dead, dead, 
 
 dead. 
 
 THE MYSTIC TEUMPETEB. 
 1. 
 
 Haek! some wild trumpeter — some strange musician. 
 Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night. 
 
 I hear thee, trumpeter ! listening, alert, I catch thy notes, 
 Now pouring, w^hirling like a tempest round me. 
 Now low, subdued — now in the distance lost. 
 
 2. 
 
 Come nearer, bodiless one ! haply in thee resounds 
 
 Some dead composer — haply thy pensive life' 
 
 AVas fiU'd with aspirations high — unform'd ideals, 
 
 Waves, oceans musical, chaotically surging. 
 
 That now, ecstatic ghost ! close to me bending, thy cornet 
 
 echoing, pealing. 
 Gives out to no one's ears but mine — ^but freely gives to 
 
 mine, 
 That I may thee translate. 
 
WALT WHITMAiJ. 213 
 
 3. 
 
 Blow, trumpeter ! free and clear — I follow thee, 
 
 While at thy liquid prelude, glad, seiene, 
 
 The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of day, 
 
 withdraw ; 
 A holy calm descends, like dew upon me ; 
 I walk, in cool refreshing night, the walks of Paiudise, 
 I scent the grass, the moist air, and the roses ; 
 Thy song expands my numb'd, imbonded spirit — thou 
 
 fi"eest, launchest me, 
 Floating and basking upon Heaven's lake. 
 
 4. 
 
 Blow^ again, trumpeter ! and for my sensuous eyes. 
 Bring the old pageants — show the feudal world. 
 
 What charm thy music works ! — thou makest pass before 
 
 me, 
 Ladies and cavaliers long dead — ^barons are in their castle 
 
 halls — the troubadours are singing ; 
 Arm'd knights go forth to redress wrongs — some in quest 
 
 of the Holy Graal : 
 I see the tournament — I see the contestants, encased in 
 
 heavy armour, seated on stately, champing horses; 
 I hear the shouts — the sounds of blows and smiting steel : 
 I see the Crusaders' tumultuous armies — Hark ! how the 
 
 cymbals clang ! 
 Lo ! where the monks walk in advance, bearing the Cross 
 
 on high ! 
 
 Blow again, trumpeter ! and for thy theme, 
 
 Take now the enclosing theme of all — the solvent and the 
 
 setting ; 
 Love, that is pulse of all — the sustenance and the pang ; 
 The heart of man and womcin all for love ; 
 No other theme but love — knitting, enclosing, all-i£Fusing 
 
 love. 
 
214 POETEY OF AMERICA. 
 
 O, how the iiiimortal phantoms crowd around me ! 
 
 I see the vast alembic ever working — I see and know the 
 
 flames that heat the world ; 
 The glow, the blush, the beating hearts of lovers. 
 So blissful happy some — and some so silent, dark, and nigh 
 
 to death. 
 Love, that is all the earth to lovers — Love, that mocks time 
 
 and space ; 
 Love that is day and night — Love, that is sun and moon 
 
 and stars ; 
 Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume ; 
 No other words, but -words of love — ^no other thought but 
 
 Love. 
 
 6. 
 Blow again, trumpeter ! conjure war's wild alarams ! 
 
 Swift to thy spell, a shuddering hum like distant thunder 
 
 rolls ; 
 Lo ! where the arm'd men hasten — lo ! 'mid the clouds of 
 
 dust, the glint of bayonets ; 
 I see the grime-faced cannoniers — I mark the rosy flash 
 
 amid the smoke — I hear the cracking of the guns : 
 — Nor war alone — ^thy fearful music-song, wild player ! 
 
 brings every sight of fear. 
 The deeds of ruthless brigands — rapine, murder — I hear 
 
 the cries for help ! 
 I see ships foundering at sea — I behold on deck, and below 
 
 deck, the terrible tableaux. 
 
 7. 
 
 trumpeter ! methinks I am myself the instrument thou 
 
 playest ! 
 Thou melt'st my heart, my brain — thou movest, drawest, 
 
 changest them, at will : 
 And now thy sullen notes send darkness through me ; 
 Thou takest away all cheering light — all hope : 
 
WALT WHITMAN. 215 
 
 I see the' enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the opprcss'tl 
 
 of the whole earth ; 
 1 feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my race — 
 
 it becomes all mine ; 
 Mine too the revenges of humanitj* — the wrongs of ages — 
 
 baffled feuds and hatreds ; 
 Utter defeat upon me weighs — all lost ! the foe victorious ! 
 (Yet 'mid the ruins Pride colossal stands, unshaken to 
 
 the last ; 
 Endurance, resolution, to the last.) 
 
 Now, trumpeter ! for thy close. 
 
 Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet ; 
 
 Sing to my soul — renew its languishing faith and hope ; 
 
 Eouse up my slow belief — give me some vision of the future ; 
 
 Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy. 
 
 glad, exulting, culminating song ! 
 
 A vigour more than earth's is in thy notes ! 
 
 Marches of victory — man disenthrall'd — the conqueror at 
 
 last! 
 Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man — all joy ! 
 A reborn race appears — a perfect World, all joy ! 
 Women and Men, in wisdom, innocence, and health, — all 
 
 Riotous, laughing bacchanals, fill'd with joy ! 
 
 War, sorrow, suffering gone — the rank earth purged — 
 
 nothing but joy left ! 
 The ocean fiU'd with joy — ^the atmosphere all joy ! 
 Joy ! Joy ! in freedom, worship, love ! Joy in the ecstasy 
 
 of Ufe ! 
 Enough to merely be ! Enough to breathe ! 
 Joy ! Joy ! all over Joy ! 
 
216 POETKT OF AMERICA. 
 
 JULIA WAED HOWE. 
 Bom in New York City 1819— 
 
 BATTLE SYMN OF TEE REPUBLIC* 
 
 Mine eyes liave seen tlie glory of the coming of the Lord : 
 He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath 
 
 are stored ; 
 He hath loosed^ the fateful lightning of His terrible swift 
 
 sword : 
 His truth is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 Glory ! gloi-y ! glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 Glory ! glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 His ti"uth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling 
 
 camps ; 
 They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and 
 
 damps ; 
 I can read His righteous sentence lay the dim and flaring 
 
 lamps : 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory, hallelujah ! — 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd rows of steel : 
 As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace 
 
 shall deal : 
 Let the hero bom of woman crush the serpent with his 
 
 heel! 
 Since God is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
 
 retreat ; 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment 
 
 seat: 
 O, be swift, my soul ! to answer Him ; be jubilant, my feet ! 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 * See Note 24. 
 
HERMAN MELVILLE. 217 
 
 In the beauty of tlie lilies Clirist was born, across the sea. 
 With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me ; 
 As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free ! 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 HEEMAN MELVILLE. 
 
 Bom in New York City 1S19— 
 
 \SHEBIDAN AT CEDAR CREEK. 
 
 Shoe the steed with silver 
 
 That bore him to the fray. 
 When he heard the guns at dawning — 
 
 Miles away ; 
 When he heard them calling, calling — 
 Mount ! nor stay ; 
 
 Quick, or all is lost ; 
 They've surprised and storm'd the post. 
 They push your routed host; — 
 Gallop ! retrieve the day ! 
 
 House the horse in ermine — 
 
 For the foam-flake blew 
 White through the red October ; 
 
 He thunder'd into view ; 
 They cheer'd him in the looming, 
 Horseman and horse they knew. 
 The turn of the tide began, 
 The rally of bugles ran, 
 He swung his hat in the van ; 
 The electric hoof-spark flew. 
 
 Wreathe the steed and lead Mm — 
 
 For the charge he led 
 Touch'd and turn'd the cypress 
 
 Into amaranths for the head 
 
218 POETRY OF AJIEEICA. 
 
 Of Philip, king of riders, 
 
 Who raised tJiem from the dead. 
 The camp (at dawning lost) 
 By eve recover' d — forced — 
 Eang -with laughter of the host 
 At belated Early fled. 
 
 Shroud the horse in sable — 
 
 For the mounds they heap ! 
 There is firing in the Valley, 
 
 And yet no strife they keep ; 
 It is the parting volley. 
 It is the pathos deep. 
 
 There is glory for the brave 
 Who lead, and nobly save. 
 But no knowledge in the grave 
 Where the nameless followers sleep. 
 
 SH I L H. 
 A Requiem. 
 SErMMiNG lightly, wheeling still, 
 
 The swallows fly low 
 O'er the field in clouded days. 
 
 The forest-field of Shiloh— 
 Over the field where April rain 
 Solaced the parch'd ones stretch'd in pain, 
 Through the pauses of night — • 
 That foUow'd the Sunday fight 
 
 Around the church of Shiloh, — • 
 The church so lone, the log-built one. 
 That echo'd to many a parting groan 
 
 And natural prayer 
 
 Of dying foemen mingled there — 
 Foemen at mom, but friends at eve — 
 
 Fame or country least their care : 
 (What like a bullet can undeceive !) 
 
 But now they lie low, 
 While over them the swallows skim. 
 
 And aU is hush'd at Shiloh. 
 
( 219 ) 
 HENEY.HOWAED BEOWNELL. 
 
 Born iu New York City 1819— 
 
 THE COLOUB-BEAllER. 
 
 (Vicksburg, May 22, 1863.) 
 
 Let them go ! — tliey are brave, I know, — 
 
 But a berth, like this, why, it suits me best ; 
 I can't carry back the Old Colours to-daj', 
 "We've come together a long rough way, — 
 Here's as good a spot as any to rest. 
 
 No look, I reckon, to hold them long ; 
 
 So here, in the turf, with my bayonet, 
 To dig for a bit, and plant them strong — 
 
 (Look out for the point — we may want it yet !) 
 
 Diy work ! — but the old canteen holds fast 
 A few drops of water — not over-fresh, — 
 
 So, for a drink! — it may be the last, — 
 My respects to you, Mr. Secesh ! 
 
 No great show for the snakes to sight ; 
 
 Our boys keep 'em busy yet, by the powers ! — 
 Hark, what a row going on, to the right ! 
 
 Better luck there, I hope, than ours. 
 
 Half an hour ! — (and you'd swear 'twas three) — 
 Here by the bully old staff I've sat, — 
 
 Long enough, as it seems to me. 
 To lose as many lives as a cat. 
 
 Now and then, they sputter away, — 
 A puff and a crack, and I hear the ball. 
 
 Mighty poor shooting, I should say, — 
 Not bad fellows, may be, after all. 
 
 My chance, of course, isn't worth a dime — 
 
 But I thought 'twould be over, sudden and quick 
 
 Well, since it seems that we're not on time, 
 Here's for a touch of the KiliHnick. 
 
220 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Cool as a clock ! — and what is strange, 
 Out of this dream of death and alarm 
 
 (This wild, hard week of battle and change). 
 
 Out of the rifle's deadly range. 
 
 My thoughts are all at th.e dear old farm. 
 
 'Tis green as a sward, hy this, I know, — 
 The orchard is just beginning to set. 
 
 They mow'd the home-lot a week ago, — 
 The corn must be late, for that piece is wet. 
 
 I can think of one or two that would wipe 
 
 A drop or so from a soft blue eye. 
 To see me sit and puff at my pipe. 
 
 With a hundred death's heads grinning hard by. 
 
 And I wonder when this has all pass'd o'er, 
 And the tatter'd old Stars in triumph wave on 
 
 Through street and square, with welcoming roar. 
 If ever they'll think of us who are gone ! 
 
 How we march'd together, sound or sick. 
 
 Sank in the trench o'er the heavy spade. 
 How we charged on the guns at double-quick, 
 Kept rank for Death to choose and to pick. 
 And lay on the bed no fair hands made. 
 
 Ah, well ! — at last, when the nation's free, 
 And flags are flapping from bluff to bay, 
 
 In old St. Lou what a time there'll be ! 
 
 I mayn't be there, the Hurrah to see, — 
 But if the Old Eag goes back to-day, 
 
 They never shall say 'twas caiTied by me ! 
 
 TSE BURIAL OF THE DANE. 
 
 Blue gulf all around us, 
 Blue sky overhead — 
 
 Muster all on the quarter, 
 We must bury the dead ! 
 
HENRY HOWAKD BEOWNELL. 221 
 
 It is but a Danish sailor. 
 
 Rugged of front and form ; 
 A common son of the forecastle. 
 
 Grizzled with sun and storm. 
 
 His name and the strand he hail'd from 
 We know — and there's nothing more ! 
 
 But perhaps his mother is waiting 
 In the lonely Island of Fohr. 
 
 Still as he lay there dying, 
 
 Eeason drifting, a wreck, — 
 " 'Tis my watch ! " he would mutter — 
 
 " I must go upon deck ! " 
 
 Ay, on deck — by the foremast ! — 
 
 But watch and look-out are done ; 
 The Union Jack laid o'er him, 
 
 How quiet he lies in the sun ! 
 
 Slow the ponderous engine ! 
 
 Stay the hurrying shaft ! 
 Let the roll of the ocean 
 
 Cradle our giant craft ! 
 Gather around the grating, 
 
 Carry your messmate aft ! 
 
 Stand in order, and listen 
 
 To the holiest page of prayer ; 
 Let every foot be quiet, 
 
 Every head be bare ! — 
 The soft trade-wind is lifting 
 
 A hundred locks of hair. 
 
 Our captain reads the service 
 
 (A little spray on his cheeks) — 
 The grand old words of burial. 
 
 And the trust a true heart seeks, — 
 " We therefore commit his body 
 
 To the deep ! " — and, as he speaks. 
 
222 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Launcli'd from tlie weaflier-railing, 
 Swift as the ej^e can mark, 
 
 The ghastly, shotted hammock 
 Plunges, away from the shark, 
 
 Down, a thousand faihoms, 
 Down into the dark ! 
 
 A thousand summers and winters 
 The stormy Gulf shall roll 
 
 High o'er his canvas cofSn, — 
 But, silence to doubt and dole ! 
 
 There's a quiet harbour somewhere 
 For the poor a- weary soul. 
 
 Free the fetter'd engine ! 
 
 Speed the tireless shaft ! 
 Loose to'gallant and topsail ! — 
 
 The breeze is fair abaft. 
 
 Blue sea all around us, 
 
 Blue sky bright o'erhead, — 
 
 Eveiy man to his duty ! 
 We have buried our dead. 
 
 QV'IL MOUBUTl 
 
 Not a sob, not a tear be spent 
 
 For those who fell at his side, — 
 
 But a moan and a long lament 
 
 For him — who might have died 
 
 Who might have lain, as Harold lay, 
 A King, and in state enow, — 
 
 Or slept with his peers, like Eoland 
 In the Straits of Eoncesvaux. 
 
( 223 ) 
 
 ALICE GARY. 
 Born near Cincinnati, Ohio, 1820 — died 1871. 
 
 TEE LITTLE BOUSE ON THE SILL. 
 
 Memory ! be sweet to me, — 
 Take, take all else at will, 
 
 So thou but leave me- safe and sound. 
 Without a token my heart to wound. 
 The little house on the hill ! 
 
 Take all of best from east t(3 west. 
 
 So thou but leave me still 
 The chamber, where in the starry light 
 
 1 used to lie awake at night 
 And list to the whip-poor-will. 
 
 Take violet-bed, and rose-tree red. 
 And the purple flags by the mill, 
 
 The meadow gay, and the garden-ground ; 
 
 But leave, leave me safe and sound 
 The little house on the hill ! 
 
 The daisy-lane, and the dove's low plain, 
 
 And the cuckoo's tender bill, — 
 Take one and all, but leave the dreams 
 That turn'd the rafters to golden beams, 
 In the little house on the hill ! 
 
 The gables brown, they have tumbled down. 
 
 And dry is the brook by the mill ; 
 The sheets I used with care to keep 
 Have wrapt my dead for the last long sleep 
 In the valley, low and still. 
 
 But, Memory ! be sweet to me, 
 
 And build the walls, at wiU, 
 Of the chamber where I used to mark. 
 So softly rippling over the dark, 
 
 The song of the whip-poor-will ! 
 
22^! POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Ah, Memory ! be sweot to mo : 
 
 All other fountains chill ; 
 But leave that song so weird and mid, 
 Dear as its life to the heart of tho child, 
 In. the little house on the hill ! 
 
 FADED LEAVES. 
 
 The hills are bright with maples yet ; 
 
 But down the level land 
 The beech leaves rustle in the wind 
 
 As dry and browii as sand. 
 
 The clouds in bars of rusty red 
 
 Along the hill- tops glow, 
 And in the still sliarp air the frost 
 
 Is like a dream of snow. 
 
 The berries of the briar-rose 
 Have lost their rounded pride ; 
 
 The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums 
 Are drooping heavy-eyed ; 
 
 The crictet grows more friendly now. 
 The dormouse sly and wise, 
 
 Hiding away in the disgrace 
 Of nature, from men's eyes ; 
 
 The pigeons in black wavering lines 
 Are swinging tovv'rd the sun ; 
 
 And all the wide and wither'd fields 
 Proclaim the summer done. 
 
 His store of nuts and acorns now 
 The squirrel hastes to gain. 
 
 And sets his house in order for 
 The ■winter's dreary reign. 
 
 'Tis time to light the evening fire, 
 To read good books, to sing 
 
 The low and lovely songs that breathe 
 Of the eternal Spring. 
 
( 225 ) 
 PHCEBE CAEY. 
 
 Born near Cincinnati, Ohio, 1824 — died 1871. 
 SONG. 
 
 Laugh out, stream ! from your ted of green, 
 
 Where you lie in the sun's embrace ; 
 And talk to the reeds that o'er j'ou lean 
 
 To touch your dimpled face. 
 But let your talk be sweet as it will, 
 
 And your laughter be as gay. 
 You cannot laugh as I laugh in my heart, — 
 
 Tor my lover will come to-day ! 
 
 Sing sweet, little bird ! sing out to your mate 
 
 That hides in the leafy grove ; 
 Sing clear and tell him for him you wait. 
 
 And tell him of all your love. 
 But though you sing till you shake the buds 
 
 And the tender leaves of May, 
 My spirit thrills with a sweeter song, — 
 
 For my lover must come to-day! 
 
 Come up, winds ! come up from the south 
 
 With eager hurrying feet. 
 And kiss your red rose on her mouth 
 
 In the Ijower where she blushes sweet. 
 But you cannot kiss your darling flower, 
 
 Though you clasp her as you may, 
 As I kiss in my thought the lover dear 
 
 I shall hold in my arms to-day ! 
 
 ALAS! 
 
 Since, if you stood by my side to-day. 
 Only our hands could meet. 
 
 What matter if half the weary world 
 Lies out between our feet ? 
 
226 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 That I am Iiere by the lonesome sea, 
 You by the pleasant Ehine ? 
 
 Our hearts were just as far apart, 
 If I held your hand in mine ! 
 
 Therefore, with never a backward glance, 
 
 I leave the past behind ; 
 And standing here by the sea alone, 
 
 I give it to the wind. 
 
 I give it all to the cruel wind, 
 And I have no word to say ; 
 
 Yet, alas ! to be as we have been. 
 And to be as we are to-day ! 
 
 PICKLED BEETS. 
 
 Go on, my friend ! speak freely, pray ; 
 Don't stop till you have said your say ; 
 But, after you are tired to death. 
 And pause to take a little breath, 
 I'll name a dish I think is one 
 To which no justice can be done ! 
 
 It isn't pastry, old and rich. 
 
 Nor onions, garlic, chives, and sich. 
 
 Not cheese that moves with lively pace. 
 
 It isn't even Sweitzer Kase : 
 
 It isn't ham that's old and strong. 
 
 Nor sausage kept a month too long ; 
 
 It isn't beefsteak fried in lard. 
 
 Nor boil'd potatoes when they're hard, 
 
 (All food unfit for Goth or Celt) ; 
 
 It isn't fit even when they're smelt ; 
 
 It ain't what Chinamen call nice, 
 
 Although they dote on rats and mice, 
 
 For, speaking honestly and truly, 
 
 I wouldn't give it to a Coolie ! 
 
 I wouldn't vaUy even a pup, 
 
RICHARD COE. 227 
 
 If he could stoop to eat it up ; 
 ISTor give mj enemy a bit. 
 Although he sot and cried for it. 
 Eecall all jiizen food and slop 
 At stations where the rail-cars stop ; 
 It's more than each and all of these, 
 By just about sixteen degrees. 
 It has no nutriment, it's trash ! 
 It's meaner than the meanest hash, 
 And sourer twenty thousand times. 
 Than lemons, vinegar, and limes : 
 It's what I hate the man who eats ; 
 It's poor, cold, cussed, pickled beets ! 
 
 EICHAED COE. 
 
 Bom at Philadelphia 1S21— 
 EMBLEMS. 
 
 Fallbth now from off a tree 
 
 A wither'd leaf: 
 This the lesson taught to me, — 
 
 Life is brief! 
 
 Hear it say — 
 " Mortal, soon thou'lt follow me 
 
 To decay ! " 
 
 Droppeth now from off my head 
 
 A silver hair : 
 Plainer preacher never said — 
 
 " For death prepare ! " 
 
 Fill'd with gloom. 
 We follow Time with solemn tread 
 
 To the tomb. 
 
 Mounteth now on wings of air, 
 
 To the sky, 
 A little dewdrop pure and clear : 
 
 Far up on high, 
 
 Hear it say — ■ 
 
228 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 " All above the earth is fair ; 
 
 Watch and pray ! 
 Night or sorrow come not here : 
 
 'Tis perfect day ! " 
 
 CORNELIUS GEOEGE EENNEE. 
 Born 1822— died 1847. 
 
 GULF-WEED. 
 
 A WEAEY weed, toss'd to and fro, 
 
 Drearily drench'd in the ocean brine. 
 Soaring high and sinking low, 
 
 Lash'd along without will of mine, — 
 Sport of the spoom of the surging sea, 
 
 Flung on the foam, afar and anear, 
 Mark my manifold mystery, — 
 
 Growth and grace in their place appear ! 
 
 I bear round berries, gray and red, 
 
 Bootless and rover though I be ; 
 My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, 
 
 Arboresce as a trunkless tree ; 
 Corals curious coat me o'er, 
 
 White and hard in apt array ; 
 'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar. 
 
 Gracefully grow I, night and day. 
 
 Hearts there are on the sounding shore — 
 
 Something whispers soft to me — ■ 
 Eestless and roaming for evermore, 
 
 Like this weary weed of the sea ; 
 Bear they yet on each beating breast 
 
 The eternal type of the wondrous whole : 
 Growth unfolding amidst unrest, 
 
 Grace informing with silent soul ? 
 
( 229 ) 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN EEAD. 
 
 Born in Pennsylvania 1822 — died 1872. 
 
 TEE WINDY NIGHT. 
 
 Alow and aloof, 
 
 Over the roof, 
 How tlie midniglit tempests howl ! 
 
 With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune 
 Of wolves that hay at the desert moon ; 
 
 Or whistle and shriek 
 
 Through limbs that creak. 
 
 "Tu-who! tu-whit!" 
 
 They cry, and flit, 
 " Tu-whit ! tu-who ! " like the solemn owl ! 
 
 Alow and aloof, 
 
 Over the roof. 
 Sweep the moaning winds amain. 
 
 And wUdly dash 
 
 The elm and ash. 
 Clattering on the window sash, 
 
 With a clatter and patter 
 
 Like hail and rain, 
 
 That w^ell-nigh shatter 
 
 The dusky pane ! 
 
 . Alow and aloof, 
 
 Over the roof. 
 How the tempests swell and roar ! 
 
 Though no foot is astir. 
 
 Though the cat and the cur 
 Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, 
 
 There are feet of air 
 
 On every stair — 
 
 Through every hall ! 
 
 Through each gusty door 
 
 There's a jostle and bustle, 
 
 With a silken rustle. 
 Like the meeting of guests at a festival ! 
 
230 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Alow and aloof, 
 
 Over the roof, 
 How the stormy tempests swell ! 
 
 And make tlie vane 
 
 On the spire complain ; 
 They heave at the steeple with might and main, 
 
 And burst and sweep 
 
 Into the belfry, on the bell ! 
 They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, 
 
 That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep. 
 And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell ! 
 
 THE DESERTED FARM. 
 
 The elms were old, and gnarl'd, and bent ; 
 
 The fields, untill'd, were choked with weeds. 
 Where, every year, the thistles sent 
 
 Wider and wider their winged seeds. 
 
 Farther and farther the nettle and dock 
 
 Went colonizing over the plain, — 
 Growing, each season, a plenteous stock 
 
 Of burrs to protect their wild domain. 
 
 The last who ever had plough'd the soil 
 Now in the furrow'd churchyard lay ; 
 
 The boy who whistled to lighten his toil 
 Was a sexton somewhere far away. 
 
 Instead, you saw how the rabbit and mole 
 Burrow'd and furrow'd w^ith never a fear ; 
 
 How the tunnelling fox look'd out of his hole. 
 Like one who notes if the skies are clear. 
 
 No mower was there to startle the birds 
 With the noisy whet of his reeking scythe ; 
 
 The quail, like a cow-boy calling his herds. 
 Whistled to tell that his heart was blithe. 
 
 Now all was bequeath'd with pious care — 
 
 The groves and fields fenced round with briars- 
 
TH05LA.S BUCHANAN READ. 231 
 
 To the birds that sing in the cloisters of air, 
 
 And the squiiTols, those nieriy woodland friars. 
 
 AUTUMN'S SIGHING. 
 
 Autumn's sighing, 
 Moaning, dying ; 
 Clouds are flying 
 
 On like steeds ; 
 While their shadows 
 O'er the meadows 
 Walk like -widows 
 
 Deck'd in w^eeds. 
 
 Eed leaves trailing. 
 Fall unfailing. 
 Dropping, sailing, 
 
 From the wood, 
 That, unpliant, 
 Stands defiant, 
 Like a giant 
 
 Dropping blood. 
 
 Winds are swelling 
 Bound our dwelling, 
 All day telling 
 
 TJs their w^oe ; 
 And at vesper 
 Frosts grow crisper, 
 As they whisper 
 
 Of the snow. 
 
 From the unseen land 
 Frozen inland, 
 Down from G-reenland 
 
 Winter glides. 
 Shedding lightness 
 Like the brightness 
 When moon-whiteness 
 
 Fills the tides. 
 
232 POETKY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Now bright Pleasure's 
 Sparkling measures 
 With rare treasures 
 
 Overflow ! 
 With, this gladness 
 Comes what sadness ! 
 Oh, what madness ! 
 
 Oh, what woe ! 
 
 Even merit 
 !May inherit 
 Some hare garret, 
 
 Or the ground ; 
 Or, a worse ill, 
 Beg a morsel 
 At some door sill. 
 
 Like a hound ! 
 
 Storms are trailing ; 
 Winds are wailing. 
 Howling, railing 
 
 At each door. 
 'Midst this trailing, 
 Howling, railing, 
 List the wailing 
 Of the poor ! 
 
 GEOEGE H. BOKEE. 
 
 Bom at Philadelphia 1823 — 
 
 THE SLACK REGIMENT. 
 (Port Hudson, May 27, 1863.) 
 
 Dark as the clouds of even, 
 Eank'd in the w^estern heaven, 
 Waiting the breath that lifts 
 All the dread mass and drifts 
 Tempest and falling brand. 
 Over a ruin'd land, — 
 So still and orderly. 
 Arm to arm, knee to knee. 
 
GEORGE H. BOKER. 233 
 
 Waiting the great event, 
 Stands the black regiment. 
 
 Down the long dusky line 
 Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine ; 
 And the bright bayonet, 
 Bristling and firmly set, 
 Flash'd with a purpose grand. 
 Long ere the sharp command 
 Of the fi.eroe rolling drum 
 Told them their time had come, — 
 Told them what work was sent 
 For the black regiment. 
 
 " Now ! " the flag-sergeant cried, — 
 " Though death and hell betide, 
 Let the whole nation see 
 If we are fit to be 
 Free in this land ; or bound 
 Down, like the whining hound, — 
 Bound with red stripes of pain 
 In our old chains again ! " — 
 0, what a shout there went 
 From the black regiment ! 
 
 " Charge ! " Trump and drum awoke, 
 Onward the bondmen broke ; 
 Bayonet and sabre-stroke 
 Vainly opposed their rush. 
 Through the wild battle's crush. 
 With but one thought aflush, 
 Driving their lords like chaff. 
 In the guns' mouths they laugh ; 
 Or at the slippery brands 
 Leaping with open ha,nds, 
 Down they tear man and horse, 
 Down in their awful course ; 
 Trampling with bloody heel 
 Over the crashing steel ; 
 All their eyes forward bent, 
 Eush'd the black regiment. 
 
234 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 " Freedom ! " tlieir battle-ciy, — 
 " Freedom ! or leave to die ! " 
 Ah ! and they meant the word, 
 Not as with us 'tis heard, 
 Not a mere party shout : 
 They gave their spirits out ; 
 Trusted the end to God, 
 And on the gory sod 
 Eoll'd in triumphant blood : 
 Glad to strike one free blow. 
 Whether for weal or woe ; 
 Glad to breathe one free breath, 
 Though on the lips of death ; 
 Praying — alas ! in vain ! — 
 That they might fall again. 
 So they could once more see 
 That burst to liberty ! 
 This was what " freedom " lent 
 To the black regiment. 
 
 Hundreds on hundreds fell. 
 But they are resting well ; 
 Scourges and shackles strong 
 Never shall do them wrong. 
 0, to the living few. 
 Soldiers, be just and true ! 
 Hail them as comrades tried ; 
 Fight with them side by side ; 
 Never, in field or tent, 
 Scorn the black regiment ! 
 
 A BALLAD OF SIB JOHN FBANKLIN. 
 
 " The ice was here, tlie ice icas there, 
 The ice was all around." — Colekidge. 
 
 0, WHiTHEE sail you ? Sir John Feanklin ! 
 
 Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. 
 To know if between the land and the pole 
 
 I may find a broad sea-way. 
 
GEORGE H. BOKER. 235 
 
 I charge you back. Sir John Franklin ! 
 
 As j'ou would live aud thrive ; 
 For between the land and the frozen pole 
 
 No man ra&j sail alive. 
 
 But lightly laugh'd the stout Sir John, 
 
 And spoke unto his men : 
 Half England is wrong, if he is right ; 
 
 Bear off to westward then ! 
 
 0, whither sail you ? brave Englishman ! 
 
 Cried the little Esquimaux. 
 Between your land and the polar star 
 
 My goodly vessels go. 
 
 Come down, if you ■would journey there ! 
 
 The little Indian said ; 
 And change your cloth for fur clothing. 
 
 Tour vessel for a sled. 
 
 But lightly laugh'd the stout Sir John, 
 And the crew laugh'd with him too : — 
 
 A sailor to change from ship to sled, 
 I w^een, were something new ! , 
 
 All through the long long polar day 
 
 The vessels westward sped ; 
 And wherever the sail of Sir John was blo'wn, 
 
 The ice gave way and fled. 
 
 Gave way with many a hollow groan. 
 
 And with many a surly roar, 
 But it murmur'd and threaten'd on every side ; 
 
 And closed where he sail'd before. 
 
 Ho ! see ye not, my merry men ! 
 
 The broad and open sea ? 
 Bethink ye what the whaler said ! 
 Think of the little Indian's sled ! 
 
 The crew laugh'd out in glee. 
 
 Sir John, Sir John, it is bitter cold. 
 The scud drives on the breeze, 
 
236 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Tho ice comes looming from the north, 
 The very sunbeams freeze. 
 
 Bright summer goes, dark winter comes, — 
 
 We cannot rule the year ; 
 But long e'er summer's sun goes down. 
 
 On yonder sea we'll steer. 
 
 The dripping icehergs dipp'd and rose, 
 And flounder'd down the gale ; 
 
 The ships were staid, the j'ards were mann'd, 
 And furFd the useless sail. 
 
 The summer's gone, the w^inter's come, 
 
 We sail not on yonder sea : 
 Why sail we not ? Sir John Feanklin ! 
 
 A silent man w^as he. 
 
 The summer goes, the winter comes, — 
 
 We cannot rule the year : 
 I ween, we cannot rule the ways. 
 
 Sir John ! wherein we'd steer. 
 
 The cruel ice oame floating on, 
 
 And closed beneath the lee, 
 Till the thickening waters dash'd no more ; 
 'Twas ice around, behind, before — 
 
 ^fy God ! there is no sea ! 
 
 What think you of the whaler now ? 
 
 What of the Esquimaux ? 
 A sled were better than a ship. 
 
 To cruise through ice and snow^. 
 
 Down sank the baleful crimson sun. 
 
 The northern light came out, 
 And glared upon the ice-bound ships. 
 
 And shook its spears about. 
 
 The snow came down, storm breeding storm. 
 
 And on the decks was laid : 
 Till the weary sailor, sick at heart. 
 
 Sank down beside his spade. 
 
GEORGE H. BOKER. 287 
 
 Sir John ! the night is black and long. 
 
 The hissing wind is bleak, 
 The hard green ice is strong as death : — 
 
 I prithee, Captain ! speak ! 
 
 The night is neither bright nor short. 
 
 The singing breeze is cold : 
 The ice is not so strong as hope — 
 
 The heart of man is bold ! 
 
 What hope can scale this icy wall. 
 
 High o'er the main flag-staff? 
 Above the ridges the w^olf and bear 
 Look down with a patient, settled stare. 
 
 Look down on us and langh. 
 
 The snmmer went, the winter came, — 
 
 We could not rule the year ; 
 But summer will melt the ice again. 
 And open a path to the sunny main. 
 
 Whereon our ships shall steer. 
 
 The winter went, the summer went. 
 
 The winter came around : 
 But the hard green ice w^as strong as death, 
 And the voice of hope sank to a breath. 
 
 Yet caught at every sound. 
 
 Hark ! heard ye not the noise of guns ? 
 
 And there, and there, again ? 
 'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar. 
 
 As he turns in the frozen main. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the Esquimaux 
 
 Across the ice-fields steal : 
 God give them grace for their charity ! — 
 
 Te pray for the silly seal. 
 
 Sir John ! where are the English fields, 
 
 And where are the English trees, 
 And where are the little English flowers 
 
 That open in the breeze ? 
 
238 POETEY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Be still, be still, my bravo sailors ! 
 
 You shall see the fields again. 
 And smell the scent of tlie opening flowers, 
 
 The grass and the waving grain. 
 
 Oh ! -when shall I see my orphan child ? — 
 
 My Mary waits for me. — 
 Oh ! when shall I see vij old mother, 
 
 And praj' at her trembling knee ? — 
 
 Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 
 
 Think not such thoughts again. 
 But a tear froze slowly on his cheek ; 
 
 He thought of Lady Jane. 
 
 Ah ! bitter, bitter grows the cold, 
 The ice grows more and more ; 
 
 More settled stare the wolf and bear, 
 More patient than before. 
 
 Oh ! think you, good Sir John Feahklin, 
 
 We'll ever see the land ? 
 'Twas cruel to send us here to starve, 
 
 "Without a helping hand. 
 
 'Twas cruel, Sir John ! to send us here, 
 
 So far from help or home. 
 To starve and freeze on this lonely sea : 
 I ween, the Lords of the Admiralty 
 
 Would rather send than come. 
 
 Oh ! whether we starve to death alone. 
 
 Or sail to our own country, 
 We have done what man has never done : 
 The truth is founded, the secret won, — 
 
 We pass'd the Northern Sea ! 
 
( 239 ) 
 AUGUSTINE JOSEPH HICKEY DUGANNE. 
 
 Born at Boston, Mass : 1823 — 
 TSE POET AND THE PEOPLE. 
 
 Spoke well the Grecian, when he said that poems 
 Were the high laws that sway'd a nation's mind — 
 
 Voices that live on echoes — 
 
 Brief and prophetic pi'oems. 
 Opening the great heart-book of human kind ! 
 
 Songs are a nation's pulses, which discover 
 If the great body be as nature will'd ; 
 
 Songs are the spasms of soul, 
 
 Telling us when men suffer : 
 Dead is the nation's heart whose songs are still'd. 
 
 Lo ! the firm poet is the Truth's dispenser — 
 
 Standing, like Heaven's high-priest, before its shrine; 
 
 And his high thoughts, like incense. 
 
 From his soul's golden censer, 
 Eise to God's throne — a sacrifice divine ! 
 
 Stands he like Samuel, darkly prophesying, — 
 
 Threats he, like Nathan, humbling Judah's king, — 
 
 Comes he as John the Baptist, 
 
 'Mid the wild desert crying, — 
 Still from his soul the impatient voice must spring. 
 
 Speaks he to senseless tyrants, who with scourges 
 Would curb the ocean of the human heart ! — 
 Over their whips and fetters, 
 Eush his bold songs, like surges : 
 
 Eorth from the caverns of deep thought they start. 
 
 Still for the People — still for Man and Freedom — 
 Boldly his Titan words the bard must speak ; 
 
 Till his too long lost birthright 
 
 Shall be regain'd by Edom — 
 Till, to restore that right, Jacob shall Esau seek ! 
 
240 POETRY OF AMERICA, 
 
 LOVES EYES. 
 
 Light of my life ! thy glorious eyes 
 Like stare above my heart arise — 
 Like stars that shine in midnight skies. 
 
 Down in my bosom's deep they beam, 
 Like star-rays in some darksome stream,- 
 Eefleoted there, mine own they seem. 
 
 Eeflected in my soul thou art — 
 And thy dear eyes of me are part : 
 By their pure light I read my heart. 
 
 Before their beams, so bright and clear. 
 My shadowy doubtings disappear ; 
 And Hope is now where once was Fear. 
 
 Dear Byes ! — do not my heart forsake ! 
 Shine, like the stars within the lake, — 
 Shine, and the darksome shadows break ! 
 
 CHARLES GODFEET LELAND. 
 
 Bom at Philadelphia 1824— 
 BSEITMANN AND TSE TUSNEBS. 
 
 Hans BREirMATm choiu'd de Toomers 
 
 Novemper in de fall, 
 Dnd dey gifed a boostin' bender 
 
 All in de Toorner Hall. 
 Dere coom'd de whole Gresangrerein 
 
 Mit der LiederUch Aepfel Chor, 
 Und dey blow'd on de drooms and strom'd on de fifes 
 
 Till dey couldn't refife no more. 
 
 Hans Breitmann choin'd de Toomers, — 
 
 Dey all set oop some shouts, 
 Dey took'd hiTn into deir Toorner Hall, 
 
 Und poots him a course of shprouts ; 
 
CHAKLES GODFREY LELAND. 241 
 
 Dey poots him on de barrell-hell pare 
 
 "Dnd shtands him oop on his head, 
 TJnd dey poomps de beer mit an enchine hose 
 
 In his mout' dill he's 'pout half tead ! 
 
 Hans Breitmann choin'd de Toomers ; — 
 
 Dey mate shimnastig dricks, 
 He stoot on de middle of de floor 
 
 Und put oop a fifdy-six ; 
 Und den he trows it to de roof, 
 
 Und schwig off a treadful trink : 
 De veight coom toomple jJack on his headt, 
 
 Und py shinks ! he didn't vink ! 
 
 Hans Breitmann choin'd de Toomers : — 
 
 Mein Gott ! how dey drink'd und shwore, — 
 Dere vas Schwabians und Tyrolers, 
 
 Und Bavarians by de score ; 
 Some Tellers coom'd from de Eheinland, 
 
 Und Prankfort-on-de-Main, 
 Boot dere vas only von Sharman dere, 
 
 Und he vas a Molstein Dane. 
 
 Hans Breitmann choin'd de Toomers, 
 
 Mit a Limpurg' cheese he coom ; 
 Ven he open de box it schmell so loudt 
 
 It knock de musik doomb ; 
 Ven de Deutschers kit de flavour, 
 
 It coorl de haar on dere head ; 
 Boot dere vas dwo Amerigans dere ; 
 
 Und, py tam ! it kilt dem dead ! 
 
 Hans Breitmann choin'd de Toomers ; 
 
 De ladies coom'd in to see, — 
 Dey poot dem in de blace for de gals, 
 
 All in der gal-lerie : 
 Dey ashk — " Vhere ish der Breitmann ? " 
 
 And dey dremple mit awe aiid fear 
 Ven dey see him schwingen py de toes, 
 
 A trinken lager bier. 
 
242 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Hans Breitmann clioin'd de Toornors : — 
 
 I dells j'ou vot, py tarn ! 
 Doy sings de great Urbumuiellied : 
 
 De holy Sliarman psalm ; 
 Und ven dey kits to de gorus 
 
 You ought to hear dem dramp ! 
 It scared der Teufel do^vn below 
 
 To hear de Dootchmen stamj). 
 
 Hans Breitmann choin'd de Toomers : — 
 
 By Donner ! it vas grand, 
 Vhen de whole of dem goes a valkin' 
 
 Und dancin' on dere hand, 
 Mit de veet all wavin' in de air, 
 
 Gottstausend ! vot a dricks ! 
 Dill der Breitmann fall und dej' all go down 
 
 Shoost like a row of bricks. 
 
 Hans Breitmann choin'd de Toffrners, — 
 
 Dey lay dere in a heap, 
 And slept dill de early sonnen shine 
 
 Come in at de window creep ; 
 And de preeze it vake dem from deir dream. 
 
 And dey go to kit deir feed : — 
 Here hat' dis song an Ende — 
 
 Das ist Des Beeitmannslied. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 Der noble Eitter Hugo 
 
 Von Sohwillensaufenstein 
 Eode out mit shpeer and helmet, 
 
 Und he ooom to de panks of de Ehine. 
 
 Und oop dere rose a meer maid, 
 
 Vot hadn't got nodings on, 
 Und she say — " Oh, Eitter Hugo ! 
 
 Vhere you goes mit yourself alone ? " 
 
CHAJRLES GODFREY LELAND. 243 
 
 And he says — " I rides in de creenwood 
 
 Mit helmet und mit shpeer, 
 Till I cooms into em Gasthaus, 
 
 Und dere I trinks some beer." 
 
 Und den outshpoke de maiden 
 
 Vot hadn't got nodings on — 
 " I tont dink mooch of beoplesh 
 
 Dat goes mit demselfs alone ; 
 
 " You'd petter coom down in de wasser, 
 
 Vere deres heaps of dings to see, 
 Und hafe a shplendid tinner 
 
 Und drafel along mit me : 
 
 " Dere yon sees de fisch a schwimmin, 
 Und you catches dem efery one : " — 
 
 So sang dis wasser maiden 
 Vot hadn't got nodings on. 
 
 " Dere ish drunks all full mit money 
 
 In ships dat vent down of old ; 
 Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder ! 
 
 To shimmerin crowns of gold. 
 
 " Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches ! 
 
 Shoost see dese diamant rings ! 
 Coom down and full your bockets, 
 
 Und I'll giss you like avery dings. 
 
 " Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager ? 
 
 Coom down into der Ehine ! 
 Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne 
 
 Vonce fill'd mit gold-red wine ! " 
 
 Dat fetch'd him, — he shtood all shpell-pound ; 
 
 She pool'd his coat-tails down, 
 She draw'd him oonder der wasser, — 
 
 De maiden mit nodings on. 
 
244 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 
 Born at Providence, Rhode Island, 1824 — 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Rushes lean over the water, 
 Shells lie on the shore, 
 
 And thou, the blue Ocean's daughter, 
 Sleep'st soft in the song of its roar. 
 
 Clouds sail over the ocean, 
 White gusts fleck its calm. 
 
 But never its wildest motion 
 Thy beautiful rest should harm. 
 
 White feet on the edge of the billow 
 Mock its smooth-seething cream ; 
 
 Hard ribs of beach-sand thy pillow. 
 And a noble lover thy dream. 
 
 Like tangles of sea-weed streaming 
 
 Over a perfect pearl. 
 Thy fair hair fringes thy dreaming, 
 
 sleeping Lido girl ! 
 
 PEABL-SEED. 
 
 Songs are sung in my mind 
 As pearls are form'd in the sea. 
 
 Each thought with thy name entwined 
 Becomes a sweet song in me. 
 
 Dimly those pale pearls shine, 
 
 Hidden under the sea, — 
 Vague are those songs of mine, 
 
 So deeply they lie in me. 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM CUETIS. 24'5 
 
 EBB AND FLOW. 
 
 I walk'd beside the evening sea, 
 And dream'd a dream that could not be ; 
 The waves that plunged along the shore, 
 Said only — " Dreamer ! dream no more ! " 
 
 But still the legions charged the beach. 
 And rang their battle-cry, like speech ; 
 But changed was the imperial strain ; 
 It murmur' d — "Dreamer! dream again 
 
 I homeward tum'd from out the gloom, 
 That sound I heard not in my room ; 
 But suddenly a sound that stirr'd 
 Within my very breast, I heard. 
 
 It was my heart, that like a sea 
 
 Within my breast beat ceaselessly, 
 
 But like the waves along the shore. 
 
 It said — " Dream on ! " and " Dream no more ! " 
 
 MAJOR AND MINOR. 
 
 A BiED sang sweet and strong 
 In the top of the highest tree ; 
 
 He sang — " I pour out my soul in song 
 For the summer that soon shall be." 
 
 But deep in the shady wood 
 Another bird sang — " I pour 
 
 My soul on the solemn solitude 
 
 For the springs that return no more." 
 
246 POETEY OF AMEEICA. 
 
 ADELINE D. TEAIN WHITNEY. 
 Bom at Boston, Mass : 1824 — 
 
 BEHIND THE MASK. 
 
 It was an old distorted face, 
 
 An Tincoutli visage rough and wild. 
 
 Yet from behind with laughing grace 
 Peep'd the fresh beauty of a child. 
 
 And so, contrasting strange to-day, 
 My heart of youth doth inly ask 
 
 If half earth's wrinkled grimness may 
 Be but the baby in the mask. 
 
 Behind grey hairs and furrow'd brow 
 And wither'd look that life puts on 
 
 Each, as he wears it, comes to know 
 How the child hides, and is not gone. 
 
 For while the inexorable years 
 
 To sadden'd features fit their mould, 
 
 Beneath the work of time and tears 
 
 Waits something that will not grow old. 
 
 The rifted pine upon the hill, 
 
 Scarr'd by the lightning and the wind, 
 
 Through bolt and blight doth nurture still 
 Young fibres underneath the rind ; 
 
 And many a storm-blast, fiercely sent. 
 And wasted hope, and sinful stain, 
 
 Eoughen the strange integument 
 
 The struggling soul must wear in pain. 
 
 Yet, when she comes to claim her own, 
 Heaven's angels haply shall not ask 
 
 For that last look the world hath known, — - 
 But for the face behind the mask. 
 
( 247 ) 
 
 EICHAED HENEY STODDAED. 
 
 Born at Hingham, Mass : 1825 — 
 
 ABRASAM LINCOLN. 
 (An Horatian Ode.') 
 
 Not as when some great Captain falls 
 In battle, wliere his Country calls, 
 Beyond the struggling lines 
 That push his dread designs 
 
 To doom, hy some stray ball struck dead : 
 Or, in the last charge, at the head 
 
 Of his determined men, 
 
 "Who must be victors then ! 
 
 Nor as when sink the civic Great, 
 
 The safer pillars of the State, 
 
 "Whose calm, mature, wise words 
 Suppress the need of swords ! — 
 
 "With no such tears as e'er were shed 
 
 Above the noblest of our Dead 
 Do we to-day deplore 
 The Man that is no more ! 
 
 Our sorrow hath a wider scope, 
 Too strange for fear, too vast for hope,— 
 A "Wonder, blind and dumb, 
 That waits — what is to come ! 
 
 Not more astounded had we been 
 If Madness, that dark night, unseen, 
 Had in our chambers crept. 
 And murder'd while we slept ! 
 
 "We woke to find a mourning Earth — 
 Our Lares shiver'd on the hearth, — 
 The roof-tree fallen, — all 
 That could affright, appall ! 
 
l'4M POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Such thunderbolts, in other lands, 
 Have smitten the rod from roj'al hands, 
 But spared, with us, till now. 
 Each laurel'd Csesar's brow ! 
 
 No Cffisar he, whom we lament, 
 A Man without a precedent. 
 
 Sent, it would seem, to do 
 
 His work — and perish too ! 
 
 Not by the weaiy cares of State, 
 
 The endless tasks, which will not wait, 
 
 Which, often done in vain. 
 
 Must yet be done again : 
 
 Not in the dark, wild tide of War, 
 Which rose so high, and roll'd so far. 
 
 Sweeping from sea to sea 
 
 In awful anarchy : — 
 
 Four fateful years of mortal strife. 
 Which slowly drain'd the Nation's life, 
 (Yet, for each drop that ran 
 There sprang an armed man !) 
 
 Not then ; — but when by measures meet, — 
 
 By victory, and by defeat, — 
 By courage, patience, skill. 
 The People's fix'd " We will ! " 
 
 Had pierced, had crush'd Eebellion dead, — 
 Without a Hand, without a Head ; — 
 
 At last, when all was w^ell. 
 
 He feU— 0, how he feU ! 
 
 The time, — the place, — the stealing Shape, — 
 The coward shot, — the swift escape, — 
 
 The wife — the widow's scream, — 
 
 It is a hideous Dream ! 
 
 A Dream? — what means this pageant, then ? 
 These multitudes of solemn men, 
 
RICHARD HEXRY STODDARD. 249 
 
 Wlio speak not when, they meet, 
 But throng the silent street ? 
 
 The flags half-mast, that late so high 
 riaunted at each new victory ? 
 
 (The stars no brightness shed. 
 
 But bloody looks the red !) 
 
 The black festoons that stretch for miles. 
 And turn the streets to funeral aisles ? 
 
 (No house too poor to show 
 
 The Nation's badge of woe !) 
 
 The cannon's sudden, sullen boom,— 
 The bells that toll of death and doom, — 
 
 The rolling of the drums, — ■ 
 
 The dreadful Car that comes ? 
 
 Cursed be the hand that fired the shot ! 
 The frenzied brain that hatch'd the plot ! 
 
 Thy Country's Father slain 
 
 By thee, thou worse than Cain ! 
 
 Tyrants have fallen by .«uch. as thou, 
 And Good hath followed— May it now ! 
 
 (Grod lets bad instruments 
 
 Produce the best events)'. 
 
 But he, the Man w^e mourn to-day. 
 No tyrant was : so mild a sway 
 
 In one such weight who bore 
 
 Was never known before ! 
 
 Cool should he be, of balanced powers. 
 The Ruler of a Race like ours. 
 
 Impatient, headstrong, wild, — 
 
 The Man to guide the Child ! 
 
 And this he was, -who most unfit 
 (So hard the sense of God to hit !) 
 
 Did seem to fill his Place. ' 
 
 With such a homely &ce,-r7 
 
250 POETEY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Sucli rustic manners, — speecli uncoutli, — 
 (That somehow tlunder'd oiit the Truth !) 
 Untried, untrain'd to bear 
 The more than kingly Care ? 
 
 Ay ! And his genius put to scorn 
 The proudest in the pui-ple born, 
 ^Vhose wisdom never grew 
 To what, untaught, ho knew — 
 
 The People, of whom he was one. 
 
 No gentleman like Washington, — 
 
 (T\Tiose bones, methinks, make room. 
 To have him in their tomb !) 
 
 A labouring man, with homy hands, 
 Who swung the axe, who till'd his lands, 
 
 Who shrank from nothing new, 
 
 But did as poor men do ! 
 
 One of the People ! Bom to be 
 
 Their curious Epitome ; 
 
 To share, yet rise above 
 Their shifting hate and love. 
 
 Common his mind (it seem'd so then). 
 His thoughts the thoughts of other men : 
 Plain were his words, and poor — 
 But now they will endure ! 
 
 No hasty fool, of stubborn will, 
 But prudent, cautious, pliant, still ; 
 Who, since his work was good. 
 Would do it, as he could. 
 
 Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt, 
 And, lacking prescience, went without ; 
 Often appear'd to halt, 
 And was, of course, at fault : 
 
 Heard all opinions, nothing loath, 
 And loving both sides, anger'd both : 
 
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 251 
 
 Was — not like Justice, blind, 
 But watckful, clement, kind. 
 
 No hero, this, of Eoman mould ; 
 Nor like our stately sires of old : 
 
 Perhaps he was not Great— 
 
 But he preserved the State ! 
 
 honest face, which all men knew ! 
 tender heart, but known to few ! 
 
 O Wonder of the Age, 
 
 Cut off by tragic Eage ! 
 
 Peace ! Let the long procession come, 
 For hark ! — the mournful, muflS^ed drum — 
 
 The trumpet's wail afar, — 
 
 And see ! the awful Car ! 
 
 eace ! Let the sad procession go. 
 While cannon boom, and bells toll slow : 
 And go, thou sacred Car, 
 Bearing our Woe afar ! 
 
 Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 
 Whose loyal, sorrowing Cities w^ait 
 
 To honour all they can 
 
 The dust of that Good Man ! 
 
 Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
 As greatest kings might die to gain : 
 
 The Just, the Wise, the Brave 
 
 Attend thee to the grave ! 
 
 And you, the soldiers of our wars, 
 Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars ! 
 
 Salute him once again, 
 
 Tour late Commander — slain ! 
 
 Tes ! let your tears, indignant, fall. 
 But leave your muskets on the wall : 
 
 Tour Country needs you now 
 
 Beside the forge, the plough ! 
 
POETRY OF AJIEEICA. 
 
 (When Justice shall unsheathe her brand. 
 If Mercy may not stay her hand, 
 
 Nor would we have it so — 
 
 She must direct the blow !) 
 
 And you, amid the Master-Race, 
 Who seem so strangely out of place. 
 Know ye who cometh ? He 
 Who hath declared ye Free ! 
 
 Bow while the Body passes — Nay, 
 Fall on youx knees, and weep, and pray ! 
 Weep, weep — I would ye might — 
 Tour poor, black faces white ! 
 
 And, Children ! you must come in bands. 
 With garlands in your little hands, 
 
 Of blue, and white, and red, 
 
 To strew before the Dead ! 
 
 So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 
 The Fallen to his last repose : 
 
 Beneath no mighty dome. 
 
 But in his modest Home ; 
 
 The churchyard w^here his children rest. 
 The quiet spot that suits him best : 
 There shall his grave be made, 
 And there his bones be laid ! 
 
 And there his countrymen shall come. 
 
 With memory proud, with pity dumb, 
 
 And strangers far and near, 
 
 For many and many a year ! 
 
 For many a year, and many an Age, 
 While History on her ample page 
 
 The virtues shall enroll 
 
 Of that Paternal Soul ! 
 
RICHARD henry' STODDARD. 253 
 
 JBBASMA'S ANSWER. 
 
 0^fCE, wlien the days were ages, 
 And the old Earth was young, 
 The high gods and the sages 
 From Nature's golden pages 
 Her open secrets wrung. 
 Each question'd each to know 
 Whence came the Heavens above, and whence the Earth 
 below. 
 
 Indra, the endless giver 
 
 Of every gracious thing 
 The gods to him deliver, 
 Whose bounty is the river 
 
 Of which they are the spring, — 
 
 Indra, ^th anxious heart, 
 Ventures with Vivochunu where Brahma is apart. 
 
 " Brahma ! Supremest Being ! 
 
 By whom the w^orlds are made, — 
 Where we are blind, all-seeing, — 
 Stable, "where w^e are fleeing. 
 
 Of Life and Death afraid, — 
 
 Instruct us, for mankind, 
 What is the body, Brahma ! Brahma! what the mind!" 
 
 Hearing as though he heard not. 
 
 So perfect was his rest, 
 So vast the Soul that err'd not. 
 So wise the lips that stirr'd not, — 
 
 His hand upon bis breast 
 
 He laid, .whereat his face 
 Was mirror'd in the river that girt that holy Place ! 
 
 They question'd each the other 
 
 What Brahma's answer meant. 
 Said Vivochunu — " Brother ! 
 Through Brahma the great Mother 
 
■2'A POETRY OF AJIERICA. 
 
 Hatli spoken her intent : 
 Man ends as he began — 
 The sl\ado\v on the water is all there is of Man ! " 
 
 " The Earth with woe is cumber 'd. 
 
 And no man understands ; 
 They see their days are number'd 
 By one that never slumber'd 
 
 Nor stay'd his dreadful hands. 
 
 I see with Brahma's eyes, — 
 The body is the shadow^ that on the water lies." 
 
 Thus Indra, looting deeper, 
 
 With Brahma's self possess'd. 
 So dry thine eyes, thou weeper ! 
 And rise again, thou sleeper ! 
 The hand on Brahma's breast 
 Is his divine assent, 
 Coveiing the soul that dies not. This is what Brahma 
 meant. 
 
 A CATCS. 
 
 Once the head is gray 
 And the heart is dead 
 
 There's no more to do : 
 Make the man a bed 
 
 Six foot under ground, — 
 
 There he'll slumber sound. 
 
 Golden was my hair, 
 And my heart did beat 
 
 To the viol's voice 
 
 Like the dancer's feet. 
 
 Not colder now his blood 
 
 "Who died before the flood. 
 
 Fair, and fond, and false. 
 Mother, wife, and maid,- 
 
EICHAED HENRY STODDARD. 255 
 
 Never lived a man 
 
 They have not betray'd. 
 None shall 'scape my mirth 
 But old Mother Earth. 
 
 Safely housed with her, 
 
 With no company 
 But my brother Worm, 
 
 Who will feed on me, 
 I shall slumbet sound 
 Deep down under ground. 
 
 TBE DYING LOYEB. 
 
 The grass that is tinder me now 
 Will soon be over me : Sweet ! 
 
 When you walk this way again 
 I shall not hear j'our feet. 
 
 You may walk this way again 
 And shed your tears like dew : 
 
 They will be no more to me then 
 Than mine are now to you. 
 
 UNDES THE HOSE. 
 
 She wears a rose in her hair. 
 
 At the twilight's dreamy close : 
 Her face is fair, hovr fair 
 Under the rose ! 
 
 I steal like a shadow there, 
 As she sits in rapt repose, 
 And whisper my loving prayer 
 Under the rose. 
 
 She takes the rose from her hair, 
 And her colour comes and goes, 
 And I, — a lover will dare . 
 Under the rose. 
 
256 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 ELIZABETH DEEW BAESTOW STODDARD. 
 Bom at Mattapoisett, Mass : 1823. 
 
 A SUMMER NIGBT. 
 
 I FEEL tlie breath of the Summer Night, 
 
 Aromatic fire ; 
 The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir 
 
 With tender desii-e. 
 
 The white moths flutter about the lamp, 
 
 Enamour'd with light ; 
 And a thousand creatures softly sing 
 
 A song to the Night. 
 
 But I am alone, and how can I sing 
 
 Praises to thee ? 
 Come, Night ! unveil the beautiful soul 
 
 That waiteth for me. 
 
 MEBCEBES. 
 
 Under a sultry, yellow sky, 
 
 On the yellow sand I lie ; 
 
 The crinkled vapours smite my brain, 
 
 I smoulder in a fiery pain. 
 
 Above the crags the condor flies, — 
 He knows where the red gold lies ; 
 He knows where the diamonds shine : 
 If I knew, would she be mine ? 
 
 Mercedes in her hammock swings, — 
 In her coirrt a palm tree flings 
 Its slender shadow on the ground, 
 The fountain falls with sUver sound. 
 
ELIZABETH DREW BAESTOW STODDAED. 257 
 
 Her lips are like this cactus cup, — 
 With my hand I crush it up, 
 I tear its flaming leaves apart : 
 Would that I could tear her heart ! 
 
 Last night a man was at her gate : 
 In the hedge I lay in wait : 
 I saw Mercedes meet him there. 
 By the fire-flies in her hair. 
 
 I waited till the break of day. 
 Then I rose and stole away ; 
 But left my dagger in her gate ; — 
 Now she knows her lover's fate. 
 
 ON TBE CAMPAGNA. 
 
 Stop on the Appian Way, 
 In the Eoman Campagna, — 
 
 Stop at my tomb, 
 The tomb of Cecilia Metella ! 
 
 To-day as you see it 
 Alaric saw it, ages ago. 
 When he, with his pale-visaged Goths, 
 Sat at the gates of Eome, 
 Eeading his Eunio shield. 
 Odin ! thy curse remains. 
 
 Beneath these battlements 
 My bones were stirr'd with Eoman pride, 
 Though centuries before my Eomans died : 
 Now my bones are dust ; the Goths are dust. 
 The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king ; 
 
 My tomb remains. 
 When Eome commanded the earth 
 
 Great were the Metelli : 
 
 I was MetuUus' wife ; 
 ' I loved him, — and I died. 
 Then with slow patience built he this memorial : 
 
 Each century marks his love. 
 
 s 
 
258 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Pass bj' on tlie Appian Way 
 The tomb of Cecilia Metella. 
 Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter. 
 Wild bufialoes ti-amp at its base. 
 Deep in its desolation. 
 Deep as the shadow of Rome ! 
 
 BATAED TAYLOE. 
 
 Bom in Pennsylvania 1825 — 
 THE BIRTE OF THE PBOPEET. 
 
 Thrice three moons had -wax'd in heaven, thrice three 
 
 moons had waned away, 
 Since Abdullah, faint and thirsty, on the Desert's bosom 
 
 lay 
 In the fiery lap of summer, the meridian of the day ; — 
 
 Since from out thie sand npgushing, lo ! a sudden fountain 
 
 leapt ; 
 Sweet as musk and clear as amber, to his parching lips it 
 
 crept. 
 When he drank, it straightway vanish'd ; but his blood its 
 
 virtue kept. 
 
 Ere the mom his forehead's lustre, signet of the Prophet's 
 
 line. 
 To the beauty of Amina had tvansferr'd its flame divine : 
 Of the germ within her sleeping such the consecrated 
 
 sign. 
 
 And with every moon that faded was'd the splendour 
 
 more and more. 
 Till Amina's beauty lighten'd through the matron veil 
 
 she wore. 
 And the tent was fill'd with glory, and of Heaven it 
 
 seem'd the door. 
 
 When her quicken'd womb its burden had matured, and 
 
 Life began 
 Struggling in its living prison, through the wide Creation 
 
 ran 
 Premonitions of the coming of a God-appointed Man. 
 
BAYAJRD TAYLOR. 259 
 
 Tor the oracles of Nature recognize a Propliet's birth — 
 Blossom of the tardy ages, crowning type of human 
 
 worth,^ — 
 And by miracles and wonders he is welcomed to the 
 
 Earth. 
 
 Then the stars in heaven grew brighter, stooping down- 
 ward from their zones ; 
 
 Wheeling round the towers of Mecca, sang the moon in 
 silver tones ; 
 
 And the Kaaba's grisly idols trembled on their granite 
 thrones. 
 
 Mighty arcs of rainbow splendour, pillar'd shafts of purple 
 fire, 
 
 Split the sky and spann'd the darkness, and with many a 
 golden spire. 
 
 Beacon-like, from all the mountains stream'd the lambent 
 meteors higher. 
 
 But when first the breath of being to the sacred infant 
 
 came, 
 Paled the pomp of airy lustre, and the stars grew dim 
 
 with shame. 
 For the glory of his countenance outshone their feebler 
 
 flame. 
 
 Over Nedjid's sands it lighten'd, unto Oman's coral deep, 
 Startling all the gorgeous regions of the Orient from sleep. 
 Till, a sun on night new-risen, it illumed the Indian 
 steep. 
 
 They who dwelt in Mecca's borders saw the distant realms 
 
 appear 
 All around the vast horizon, shining marvellous and clear, 
 From the gardens of Damascus unto those of Bendemeer. 
 
 From the colonnades of Tadmor to the hills of Hadramaut, 
 Ancient Araby was lighted, and her sands the splendour 
 
 caught, 
 Till the magic sweep of vision overtook the track of 
 
 Thought. 
 
 Such on Earth the wondrous glory, but beyond the seven- 
 fold skies 
 
260 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Grod His mansions fill'd with gladness, and tlio seraphs 
 
 saw arise 
 Palaces of pearl and ruby from the founts of Paradise. 
 
 As the surge of heavenly anthems shook the solemn mid- 
 night air, 
 
 From the shrines of false religions came a wailing of 
 despair. 
 
 And the fires on Pagan altars were extinguish'd everywhere. 
 
 'Mid the sounds of salutation, 'mid the splendour and the 
 
 halm. 
 Knelt the sacred child, proclaiming, with a brow of 
 
 heavenly calm : 
 " God is God ; there is none other ; I his chosen Prophet 
 
 am ! " 
 
 THE WISDOM OF ALL 
 (jln Arab Legend.} 
 
 Ths Prophet once, sitting in calm debate. 
 Said — " I am Wisdom's fortress ; but the gate 
 Tliereof is Ali." Wherefore, some who heard, 
 With unbelieving jealousy were stirr'd ; 
 And, that they might on him confusion bring. 
 Ten of the boldest join'd to prove the thing. 
 " Let us in turn to Ali go ! " they said, — 
 " And ask if Wisdom should be sought instead 
 Of earthly riches ; then, if he reply 
 To each of us, in thought, accordantly. 
 And yet to none, in speech or phrase, the same. 
 His shall the honour be, and ours the shame." 
 
 Now, when the first his bold demand did make. 
 These were the words which Ali straightway spake : 
 " Wisdom is the inheritance of those 
 Whom Allah favours ; riches of his foes." 
 
 Unto the second he said — " Thyself must be 
 Guard to thy wealth ; but Wisdom guardeth tliee." 
 
 Unto the tliiid — " By Wisdom wealth is won ; 
 But riches purchased wisdom yet for none." 
 
BAYARD TAYLOR, 261 
 
 Unto tlie fourth — " Thy goods the thief may take ; 
 But into "Wisdom's house he can not hreak." 
 
 Unto the fifth — " Thy goods decrease the more 
 Thou givest ; but use enlarges Wisdom's store." 
 Unto the sixth — " Wealth tempts to evil ways ; 
 But the desire of Wisdom is God's praise." 
 
 Unto the seventh — " Divide thy -wealth, each part 
 Becomes a pittance. Give with open heart 
 Thy wisdom, and each separate gift shall he 
 All that thou hast, yet not impoverish thee." 
 
 Unto the eighth — "Wealth can not keep itself; 
 But Wisdom is the steward even of pelf." 
 
 Unto the ninth — " The camels slowly bring 
 
 Thy goods ; but Wisdom has the swallow's wing." 
 
 And lastly, when the tenth did question make, 
 These -were the ready words which Ali spake — 
 " Wealth is a darkness which the soul should fear ; 
 But Wisdom is the lamp that makes it clear." 
 
 Crimson with shame the questioners withdrew, 
 And they declared — "The Prophet's words were true ; 
 The mouth of Ali is the golden door 
 Of Wisdom." 
 
 When his friends to Ali bore 
 These words, he smiled and said : " And should they ask 
 The same until my dying day, the task 
 Were easy : for the stream from Wisdom's well. 
 Which God supplies, is inexhaustible." 
 
 THE ABAB TO THE FALM. 
 
 Next to thee, O fair gazelle ! 
 
 O Beddowee girl, beloved so well ; 
 
 Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 
 
 Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee ; 
 
 Next to ye both I love the Palm, 
 
 With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm ; 
 
262 POETRY OF AMEEICA. 
 
 Next to ye both I love tlie Tree 
 Wlioso fluttering shadow wraps us three 
 With love, and silence, and mystery ! 
 
 Our tribe is many, our poets vie 
 
 With any under the Arab sky ; 
 
 Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 
 
 The marble minarets that begem 
 
 Cairo's citadel-diadem 
 
 Are not so light as his slender stem. 
 
 He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance 
 As the Almehs lift their arms in dance, — 
 
 A slumberous motion, a passionate sign. 
 That works in the cells of the blood like wine. 
 
 Full of passion and sorrow is he. 
 Dreaming where the beloved may be. 
 
 And when the warm south-winds arise, 
 He breathes his longing in fervid sighs — 
 
 Quickening odours, kisses of balm. 
 That drop in the lap of his chosen Palm. 
 
 The sun may flame and the sands may stir. 
 But the breath of his passion reaches her. 
 
 Tree of Love ! by that love of thine. 
 Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 
 
 Give me the secret of the sun, 
 Whereby the woo'd is ever won ! 
 
 If I were a King, stately Tree ! 
 
 A likeness, glorious as m.ight be. 
 
 In the court of my palace I'd build for thee 1 
 
 With a shaft of silver, burnish'd bright. 
 And leaves of beryl and malachite : 
 
BAYAKD TATLOE. 263 
 
 With spikes of golden bloom a-Haze, 
 And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase : 
 
 And there the poets, in thy praise, 
 
 Should night and mo:ming frame new lays — 
 
 New measures sung to tunes divine ; 
 But none, O Palm ! should equal mine ! 
 
 BEDOUIN SONG. 
 
 From the Desert I come to thee 
 On a stallion shod with fire ; 
 And the winds are left behind 
 
 In the speed of my desire ! 
 Under thy window I stand, 
 
 And the midnight hears my cry : 
 I love thee, I love but thee. 
 With a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold. 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 Look from thy window and see 
 
 My passion and ray pain ; 
 I lie on the sands below. 
 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 Let the night-winds touch thy brow^ 
 With the heat ©f my burning sigh. 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 • And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 My steps are nightly driven. 
 
 By the fever in my breast, 
 To hear from thy lattice breathed 
 
 The word that shall give me rest. 
 
2G4 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Open the door of thy heart. 
 
 And 0|3eu thy chamber door. 
 And my kisses shall teach thj^ lips 
 The love that shall fade no more 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold. 
 
 WIND AND SEA. 
 
 The Sea is a jovial comrade, 
 
 He laughs -svherever he goes ; 
 His merriment shines in the dimpling lines 
 
 That wrinkle his hale repose ; 
 He lays himself down at the feet of the Sun, 
 
 And shakes all over with glee, 
 And the broad-back'd billows fall faint on the shore, 
 
 In the mirth of the mighty Sea ! 
 
 But the Wind is sad and restless. 
 
 And cursed with an inward pain ; 
 Tou may hark as you will, by valley or hill, 
 
 But you hear him still complain. 
 He wails on the barren, mountains, 
 
 And shrieks on the wintry sea ; 
 He sobs in the cedar, and moans in the pine. 
 
 And shudders all over the aspen tree. 
 
 Welcome are hoth their voices, 
 
 And I know not which is best, — 
 The laughter that slips from the Ocean's lips. 
 
 Or the comfortless Wind's unrest. 
 There's a pang in all rejoicing, 
 
 A joy in the heart of pain. 
 And the' Wind that saddens, the Sea that gladdens, 
 
 Are singing the self-same strain ! 
 
( 265 ) 
 
 JULIA C. E. DOEE. 
 Born at Charleston, South Carolina, 1825 — 
 
 WHAT SHE THOUGHT. 
 
 Marion sliow'd me her wedding gown 
 
 And her veil of gossamer lace to-night, 
 And the orange blooms that to-morrow morn 
 
 Shall fade in her soft hair's golden liglit. 
 But Philip came to the open door ; 
 
 Like the heart of a wild rose glow'd her cheek, 
 And they wander'd off through the garden paths. 
 
 So tlest that they did not care to speak. 
 
 I wonder how it seems to be loved ; 
 
 To know you are fair in some one's eyes ; 
 That upon some one your beauty dawns 
 
 Every day as a new surprise. 
 To know that whether you weep or smile, 
 
 Whether your mood be grave or gay, 
 Somebody thinks you all the ■while 
 
 Sweeter than any flower of May ! 
 
 I wonder what it would be to love ; 
 
 That, I think, would be sweeter far — 
 To know that one out of all the world 
 
 Was lord of your life, your king, your star ! 
 They talk of love's sweet tumult and pain ; 
 
 I am not sure that I understand, 
 Though — a thrill ran down to my finger-tips. 
 
 Once when — somebody — ^touch'd my hand. 
 
 I wonder what it would be to dream 
 
 Of a child that might one day be your own. 
 Of the hidden springs of your fife a part. 
 
 Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone. 
 Marion etoop'd one day to kiss 
 
 A beggar's babe, with a tender grace. 
 While some sweet thought, like a prophecy, 
 
 Look'd from her pure Madonna face. 
 
260 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 I wonder what it must be to think 
 
 To-morrow will be your wedding day, 
 And, in the radiant sunset glow, 
 
 Down fragrant flowery paths to stray. 
 As Marion does this blessed night 
 
 With PhUip, lost in a blissful dream. 
 Can she feel his heart through the silence beat ? 
 
 Does he -see her eyes in the starlight gleam ? 
 
 Questioning thus, my days go on, 
 
 But never an answer comes to me ; 
 All love's mysteries, sweet as strange, 
 
 Seal'd away from my life must be. 
 Yet still I dream, heart of mine ! 
 
 Of a beautiful city that lies afar ; 
 And there, sometime, I shall drop the mask. 
 
 And be shapely and fair as others are ! 
 
 OUTGBOWN. 
 
 Nay, you wrong her, my friend ! she's not fickle ; her love 
 
 she has simply outgrown : 
 One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by 
 
 the light of one's own. 
 
 Can you bear me to talk with you frankly ? There is 
 
 m^uch that my heart V70uld say ; 
 And you know we were children together, have quarrell'd 
 
 and " made up " in play. 
 
 And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you 
 
 the truth, — 
 As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our 
 
 earlier youth. 
 
 Five summers ago, when you woo'd her, you stood on the 
 
 selfsame plane. 
 Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls 
 
 could be parted again. 
 
JULIA C. K. DORR. 267 
 
 She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her 
 
 life's early May ; 
 And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love 
 
 you to-day. 
 
 Nature never stands still, nor souls either : they ever go 
 
 up or go down ; 
 And hers has been steadily soaring — but how has it been 
 
 with your own ? 
 
 She has struggled and yearn'd and aspired, grown purer 
 
 and wiser each year : 
 The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous 
 
 atmosphere ! 
 
 For she whom you crown'd with fresh roses, down yonder, 
 five summers ago, 
 
 Has leam'd that the first of our duties to God and our- 
 selves is to grow. 
 
 Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer ; but their vision is 
 
 clearer as well : 
 Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver 
 
 beU. 
 
 Her face has the look worn by those who with God and 
 
 his angels have talk'd : 
 The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits 
 
 with whom she has walk'd. 
 
 And you? Have you aim'd at the highest? Have you, 
 
 too, aspired and pray'd ? 
 Have you look'd upon evil unsullied? Have you con- 
 
 quer'd it undismay'd ? 
 
 Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months 
 
 and the years have roll'd on ? 
 Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of 
 
 victory won ? 
 
 Nay, hear me ! The truth cannot harm you. When to- 
 day in her presence you stood, 
 
268 POETRY OF AJIEEICA. 
 
 Was the liand that you gave her as white and clean as 
 that of her womanhood ? 
 
 Go, measure yourself by her standard ; look back on the 
 
 years that have fled ! 
 Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of 
 
 her girlhood is dead. 
 
 She cannot look down to her lover ; her love like her soul, 
 
 aspires ; 
 He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle 
 
 its holy fires. 
 
 Now farewell ! For the sake of old friendship I have 
 
 ventured to tell you the truth. 
 As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our 
 
 earlier youth. 
 
 LUCY LAECOM. 
 Born in Massachusetts 1826 — 
 
 A LOYAL WOMAN'S NO. 
 
 No ! is my answer from this cold, bleak ridge, 
 Down, to your valley ; you may rest you there : 
 
 The gulf is wide, and none can build a bridge 
 
 That your gross weight would safely hither bear. 
 
 Pity me, if you will ! I look at you 
 
 With something that is kinder far than scorn. 
 
 And think — " Ab, well ! I might have grovel'd, too ; 
 I might have walk'd there, fetter'd and forsworn." 
 
 I am of nature weak as others are ; 
 
 I might have chosen comfortable ways ; 
 Once from these heights I shrank, beheld afar, 
 
 In the soft lap of quiet easy days. 
 
 I might, — I will not hide it, — once I might 
 
 Have lost, in the warm whirlpools of your voice. 
 
LUCY LAECOM. 2G9 
 
 The sense of Evil, the stern cry of Eight ; 
 But Truth has steer'd me free, and I rejoice, 
 
 Not with the triumph that looks back to jeer 
 At the poor herd that call their misery bliss; 
 
 But as a mortal speaks when God is near, 
 I drop you down my answer ; it is this : — ■ 
 
 I am not yours, because you prize in me 
 What is the lowest in my own esteem : 
 
 Only my flowery levels can you see, 
 
 Nor of my heaven-smit summits do you dream. 
 
 I am not yours, because you love yourself: 
 Your heart has scarcely room for me beside. 
 
 I will not be shut in with name and pelf ; 
 I spurn the shelter of your narrow pride ! 
 
 Not yours, — ^because you are not man enough 
 To grasp your country's measure of a man. 
 
 If such, as you, when Freedom's ways are rough. 
 Cannot walk in them, learn that women can ! 
 
 Not yours, — because, in this the nation's need. 
 You stoop to bend her losses to your gain, 
 
 And do not feel the meanness of your deed ; — 
 I touch no palm defiled with such a stain ! 
 
 Whether man's thought can find too lofty steeps 
 For woman's scaling, care not I to know : 
 
 But when he falters by her side, or creeps. 
 She must not clog her soul with him to go. 
 
 Who weds me must at least with equal pace 
 Sometimes move vrith me at my being's height : 
 
 To follow him to his superior place, 
 
 His rarer atmosphere, were keen delight. 
 
 You lure me to the valley : men should call 
 Up to the. mountains, w^here the air is clear. 
 
 Win me and help me climbing, if at all ! 
 
 Beyond these peaks great harmonies I hear : — 
 
270 POETRY OF AJIEKICA. 
 
 The morning cbaunt of Liberty and Law ! 
 
 The dawn pours in, to wash out Slavery's blot ; 
 Fairer than aught the bright sun ever saw, 
 
 Eises a Nation without stain or spot ! 
 
 The men and women mated for that time 
 Tread not the soothing mosses of the plain ; 
 
 Their hands are join'd in sacrifice sublime ; 
 Their feet fiim set in upward paths of pain. 
 
 Sleep your thick sleep, and go your drowsy way ! 
 
 You cannot hear the voices in the air ! 
 Ignoble souls will shrivel in that day ; 
 
 The brightness of its coming can you bear ? 
 
 For me, I do not walk these hills alone : 
 
 Heroes who pour'd their blood out for the triith, 
 
 Women whose hearts bled, martyrs all unknown, 
 Here catch the suniise of immortal youth 
 
 On their pale cheeks and consecrated brows : — 
 It charms me not, your call to rest below. 
 
 I press their hands, my lips pronounce their vows : 
 Take my life's silence for your answer — No ! 
 
 HAKNAH BINDING SBOES. 
 
 Poor lone Hannah, 
 Sitting at" the window, binding shoes ! 
 
 Faded, •wrinkled. 
 Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse ! 
 Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
 When the bloom was on the tree : 
 Spring and winter, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Not a neighbour 
 Passing nod or answer will refuse, 
 
 To her w^hisper — 
 " Is there from the fishers any news ? " 
 
LUCY LAKCOM. 271 
 
 O, her heart's adrift, witL. one 
 On an endless voj'age gone ! 
 NigM and morning, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Fair young Hannah 
 Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos : 
 
 Hale and clever. 
 For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
 May-day skies are all aglow, 
 And the waves are laughing so ! 
 For her wedding 
 Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 
 
 May is passing : 
 'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. 
 
 Hannah shudders. 
 For the mild southwester mischief brews. 
 Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
 Outward bound, a schooner sped : 
 Silent, lonesome, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 'Tis November, 
 Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews ; 
 
 From Newfoundland 
 Not a sail returning wiU she lose, — 
 Whispering hoarsely — " Fishermen ! 
 Have you, have you heard of Ben ? " 
 Old with watching, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Twenty winters 
 Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views. 
 
 Twenty seasons, — 
 Never one has brought her any news. 
 Still her dim eyes silently 
 Chase the white sails o'er the sea : 
 Hopeless, faithful, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
272 POETRY OF AilERICA. 
 
 THE CURTAIN OF TSE DARK. 
 
 The curtain of the dark 
 
 Is pierced by many a rent : 
 Out of the star- wells, spark on spark 
 
 Trickles through, night's torn tent. 
 
 Grief is a tatter'd tent 
 
 Where through God's light doth shine : 
 Who glances up, at every rent 
 
 Shall catch a ray divine. 
 
 SLEEP-SONG. 
 
 Hush the homeless baby's crying. 
 Tender Sleep ! 
 Every folded violet 
 May the outer storm forget. 
 Those wet lids with kisses drying. 
 Through them creep ! 
 
 Soothe the soul that lies thought-w^eary. 
 Murmurous Sleep ! 
 Like a hidden brooklet's song. 
 Rippling gorgeous w^oods among. 
 Tinkling down the mountains dreary, 
 White and steep. 
 
 Breathe thy balm upon the lonely, 
 Gentle Sleep ! 
 As the twilight breezes bless 
 With s'^eet scents the wilderness : 
 Ai., let warm white dove-wings only 
 Eoujid them sweep ! 
 
 O'er the aged pour thy blessing, 
 Holy Sleep ! 
 Like a soft and ripening rain, 
 Falling on the yellow grain : 
 
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. 273 
 
 For the glare of suns oppressing. 
 Pitying weep ! 
 
 On thy still seas met together. 
 Charmed Sleep ! 
 Hear them swell a drowsy hymning, 
 Swans to silvery music swimming, 
 Floating with unruffled feather 
 O'er the deep. 
 
 JOHN TOWNSEND TEOWBEIDGE. 
 Born at Ogden, New York, 1S27— 
 
 EVENING AT TBE FARM. 
 
 Over the hill the farm-boy goes : 
 His shadow lengthens along the land, 
 A giant staff in a giant hand ; 
 In the poplar-tree, above the spring. 
 The katydid begins to sing ; 
 
 The early dews are falling; — 
 Into the stone-heap darts the mink ; 
 The swallows skim the liver's brink ; 
 And home to the woodland fly the crows : 
 When over the hill the farm-boy goes. 
 Cheerily calling, — 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! " 
 Farther, farther, over the hill. 
 Faintly calling, calling still, 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! " 
 
 Into the yard the farmer goes. 
 
 With grateful heart, at the close of day : 
 
 Harness and chain are hung away ; 
 
 In the waggon-shed stand yoke and plough ; 
 
 The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow ; 
 
 The cooling dews are falling ; — • i 
 The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, . 
 The pigs come grunting to his feet, ' ; 
 And the whinnying mare her master knows, 
 
 T 
 
374 rOETllY OF AMERICA. 
 
 When into tlie yard tlae farmer goes, 
 His cattle calling, — 
 
 " Co', boss ! eo', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! " 
 Wbile still the cow-boy, far away. 
 Goes seeking those that have gone astray ,- 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! " 
 
 Now to her task the milk-maid goes : 
 
 The cattle come crowding through the gate, 
 
 Looing, pushing, little and great ; 
 
 About the trough, by the farm-yard pump. 
 
 The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump. 
 
 While the pleasant dews are falling ; — 
 The new milch heifer is quick and shy. 
 But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, 
 
 And the white stream into the bright pail flows, 
 ^Vhen to her task the milkmaid goes, 
 Soothingly calling, — 
 
 " So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so ! " 
 The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, 
 And sits and milks in the twilight cool. 
 
 Saying, " So ! so, boss ! so ! so ! " 
 
 To supper at last the farmer goes : 
 The apples are pared, the paper read. 
 The stories are told, then all to bed ; 
 Without, the crickets' ceaseless song 
 Makes shrill the silence all night long ; 
 
 The heavy dews are falling; — 
 The housewife's hand has turn'd the lock ; 
 Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; 
 The household sinks to deep repose : 
 But still in sleep the farm-boy goes 
 Singing, calling, — 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss ; co' ! co' ! co' ! " 
 And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, 
 Drums in the pail vrith the flashing streams, 
 
 Murmuring, " So, boss ! so ! " 
 
JOHN. TOWXSEND TROWBRIDGE. 275 
 
 MIDWINTER. 
 
 The speckled sky is dim witli snow, 
 The light flakes falter and fall slow ; 
 Athwart the bill-top, rapt and pale. 
 Silently drops a silvery veil ; 
 And all the valley is shut in 
 By flickering curtains gray and thin. 
 
 But cheerily the chickadee 
 Singeth to me on fence and tree ; 
 The snow sails round him, as he sings, 
 "White as the down of angels' wings. 
 
 I watch the slow flakes as they fall 
 On bank and briar and broken wall ; 
 Over the orchard, waste and brown. 
 All noiselessly they settle down, 
 Tipping the apple-boughs, and each 
 Light quivering twig of plum and peach. 
 
 On turf and curb and bower-roof 
 The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof ; 
 It paves with pearl the garden- walk ; 
 And lovingly round tatter'd stalk 
 And shivering stem, its magic weaves 
 A mantle fair as lily-leaves. 
 
 The hooded beehive, small and low. 
 Stands like a maiden in the snow ; 
 And the old door-slab is half hid 
 Under an alabaster lid. 
 
 All day it snows : the sheeted post 
 Gleams in the dimness like a ghost ; 
 All day the blasted oak has stood 
 A muffled wizard of the wood ; 
 Garland and airy cap adorn 
 The sumach and the wayside thorn ; 
 
276 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 And clusteriug spangles lodge and sHue 
 
 In the dark tresses of the pine ; 
 
 The ragged bramble, dwarf d and old. 
 
 Shrinks like a beggar in the cold ; 
 
 In surplice white the cedar stands, 
 
 And blesses him with priestly hands. 
 
 Still cheerily the chickadee 
 
 Singeth to me on fence and tree ; 
 
 But in my inmost ear is heard 
 
 The music of a holier bird ; 
 
 And heavenly thoughts, as soft and "white 
 
 As snow-flakes, on my soul alight. 
 
 Clothing with love my lonely heart, 
 
 Healing with peace each bruised part. 
 
 Till all my being seems to be 
 
 Transfigured by their purity. 
 
 GUT HUMPHEEY McMASTEE. 
 Bom 1829— 
 
 TEE OLD CONTINENTALS. 
 (^Carmen heUicosum.') 
 
 In their ragged regimentals 
 Stood the old Continentals, 
 
 Yielding not, 
 While the grenadiers were lunging. 
 And like hail fell the plunging 
 Cannon-shot ; 
 When the files 
 Of the Isles, 
 From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of 
 the rampant 
 
 Unicom ; 
 And grummer, grummer, grummer, roU'd the roll of the 
 drummer. 
 
 Through the morn ! 
 
GUY HU5IPHEEY McMASTEK. 277 
 
 Then with eyes to the front all, 
 And -with guns horizontal. 
 
 Stood our sires ; 
 While the balls whistled deadly, 
 And in streams flashing redly, 
 Blazed the fires ; 
 As the roar 
 On the shore 
 Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded 
 acres 
 
 Of the plain ; 
 And louder, louder, louder, craok'd the black gunpowder. 
 Cracking amain ! 
 
 Now like smiths at their forges 
 Worked the red St. George's 
 
 Cannoneers ; 
 And the " villainous saltpetre " 
 Eang a fierce, discordant metre 
 
 Bound our ears. 
 
 As the swift 
 
 Storm-drift, 
 With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangour 
 
 On our flanks ; 
 Then higher, higher, higher, burn'd the old-fashion'd flre 
 
 Through the ranks ! 
 
 Then the bare-headed Colonel 
 Gallop'd through the white infernal 
 
 Powder-cloud ; 
 And his broadsword was swinging. 
 And his brazen throat was ringing. 
 
 Trumpet-loud. 
 
 Then the blue 
 
 Bullets flew, 
 And the trooper-jackets redden'd at the touch of the leaden 
 
 Eifle-breath ; 
 And rounder, rounder, rounder, roar'd the iron six-pounder, 
 
 Hurlinn; death ! 
 
278 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 HENEY TIMEOD. 
 
 Born 1829— died 18G7. 
 CI1AELEST0]\\ 
 
 Calm as that second summer whicli precedos 
 
 The first fall of the snow. 
 In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds 
 
 The city bides the foe. 
 
 As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud. 
 
 Her bolted thunders sleep, — 
 Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, 
 
 Looms o'er the solemn deep. 
 
 No Calpe frowns from lofty cliiF or scaur 
 
 To guard the holy strand ; 
 But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war. 
 
 Above the level sand. 
 
 And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couch'd. 
 
 Unseen, beside the flood, — 
 Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouch'd. 
 
 That wait and watch for blood. 
 
 Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, 
 
 Walk grave and thoughtful men, 
 "Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade 
 
 As lightly as the pen. 
 
 And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim 
 
 Over a bleeding hound. 
 Seem each one to have caught the strength of him 
 
 Whose sword she sadly bound. 
 
 Thus girt without and garrison'd at home. 
 
 Day patient following day. 
 Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome, 
 
 Across her tranquil bay. 
 
HENKT TIMROD. 279 
 
 Sliips, througli a liundred foes, from Saxon lands 
 
 And spicy Indian ports, 
 Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands. 
 
 And summer to her courts. 
 
 But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, 
 
 The only hostile smoke 
 Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, 
 
 From some frail, floating oak. 
 
 Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles. 
 
 And with an unscathed brow, 
 Eest in the strong arms of her palm-crown'd isles, 
 
 As fair and free as now? 
 
 We knownot ; in the temple of the Fates 
 
 God has inscribed her doom ; 
 And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits 
 
 The triumph or the tomb. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN BEAT). 
 
 The rain is plashing on my sill. 
 
 But all the winds of Heaven are still ; 
 
 And so, it falls with that dull sound 
 
 Which thrills us in the churchyard ground. 
 
 When the first spadeful drops like lead 
 
 Upon. the coffin of the dead. 
 
 Beyond my streaming window-pane, 
 
 I cannot see the neighbouring vane. 
 
 Yet from its old familiar tower 
 
 The bell comes, muffled, through the shower. 
 
 What strange and unsuspected link 
 
 Of feeling touch'd has made me think — 
 
 While with a vacant soul and eye 
 
 I watch that gray and stony sky — 
 
 Of nameless graves on battle-plains, 
 
 Wash'd by a single winter's rains. 
 
 Where, some beneath Virginian hills, 
 
 And some by green Atlantic rills, 
 
280 POETRY OF AJIERICA. 
 
 Some by the Tcaters of tlie West, 
 A myriad unknown heroes rest ? 
 Ah ! not the chiefs who, dying, see 
 Their flags in front of Tictory, 
 Or, at their life-blood's noblest cost 
 Paid for a battle nobly lost, 
 Claim from their monumental beds 
 The bitterest tears a nation sheds. 
 Beneath yon lonely mound — the spot 
 By all save some fond few forgot^ 
 Lie the true martyrs of the fight, 
 "Which strikes for freedom and for right. 
 Of them, their patriot zeal and pride. 
 The lofty faith that with them died, 
 No grateful page shall further tell 
 Than that so many bravely fell ; 
 And we can only dimly guess 
 What worlds of all this world's distress. 
 What utter ■woe, despair, and dearth. 
 Their fate has brought to many a hearth. 
 Just such a sky as this should weep 
 Above them, always, where they sleep ; 
 Yet, haply, at this very hour. 
 Their graves are like a lover's bower ; 
 And Nature's self, ■with eyes ■unwet, 
 Obli^vdous of the crimson debt 
 To ■which she owes her April grace. 
 Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place. 
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 
 
 Bom at Winchester, Virginia, 1830— 
 
 MAT. 
 
 Has the old glory pass'd 
 
 Erom tender May — 
 That never the echoing blast 
 Of bugle-horns merry, and fast 
 Dying away like the past. 
 
 Welcomes the day ? 
 
PAUL H. HAYNE. 281 
 
 Has the old beauty gone 
 
 From golden Maj' — 
 That not any more at dawn 
 Over the flowerj"- lawn, 
 Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, 
 
 Maids are at play? 
 
 Is the old freshness dead 
 
 Of the fairy May?— 
 Ah ! the sad tear-drops unshed ! 
 Ah ! the young maidens unwed ! 
 Golden locks — cheeks rosy red — 
 
 Ah ! where are they ? 
 
 PAUL H. HATXB. 
 Bom at Charleston, South Carolina, 1831 — 
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 A SHIP with lofty prow came down 
 
 To Latium's strand — - 
 A God had burst from sever'd chains. 
 
 To rule the land. 
 
 Plenty and smiling Peace sprung up 
 
 Beneath his tread, — 
 Earth blossom'd like Hesperian fields,— 
 
 Discord was dead. 
 
 Heaven with its calm supernal light 
 
 Had bless'd the spot, — 
 And Misery in the enchanted realm 
 
 Durst enter not. 
 
 Life pass'd away like holy dreams 
 
 On spring-tide eves, — 
 And melted as the sunset melts 
 
 From violet leaves. 
 
 From haunted wood-shades genii flew. 
 In twilight dim, — 
 
282 POJETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Nature and human hearts drank deep 
 Their 'wildering hymn. 
 
 Earth, air, and heaven, entranced were,— 
 
 A cloudless clime 
 Hung, like transparent dews, around 
 
 That Golden Time. 
 
 Those golden yoai-s have pass'd, to come 
 
 In purer light, — 
 Their hopes that sleep, but are not dead. 
 
 Will chase the night. 
 
 Time from the dungeon vault of Sin 
 
 Will strongly burst, 
 And glorious in his wrath cast ofif 
 
 His chains accurst. 
 
 A God vnil reach from viewless realms 
 
 This mortal shore, — 
 And dark-robed Misery flee his face 
 
 For evermore. 
 
 TSE WSl OF A BLVSM. 
 
 Two maples by the cottage porch 
 Grew crimson in the sunset light ; 
 
 Was it their leaves' reflected glow 
 
 Which made her perfect face so bright ? 
 
 I led her gently down the steps, 
 
 And down the pathway's flickering shade. 
 But still o'er tender cheek and brow 
 
 The same deep radiance warmly play'd. 
 
 " Enough, O Sweet ! " I whisper'd low ; 
 
 " That heart is mine I yeam'd to win : 
 No sunset flush, but love's pure dawn, 
 
 Breaks from the kindled soul within ! " 
 
( 283 ) 
 
 EDMUND CLAEENCE STEDMAN. 
 Born at Hartford, Conn : 1S33— 
 
 SOW OLD BIIOWN TOOK JJABPEM'S -FEREY. 
 
 John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee 
 farmer. 
 Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of 
 might. 
 There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife 
 grew warmer, 
 Till the Eangers fired Ms dwelling, in his absence, in 
 the night ; 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Came homeward in the morning — to find his house burn'd 
 down. 
 
 Then he grasp'd his trusty rifle and boldly fought for 
 freedom ; 
 Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band ; 
 And he and his bravo boys vow'd — so might Heaven help 
 and speed 'em ! — ■ 
 They would save those grand old prairies from the curse 
 that blights the land ; 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Said, " Boys, the Lord will aid us ! " and he shoved his 
 ramrod down. 
 
 And the Lord did aid these men, and they labour'd day 
 and even. 
 Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seem'd 
 charm'd. 
 Till the rufSans kiU'd one son, in the blessed light of 
 Heaven, — 
 In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he joumey'd all 
 xmarm'd ; 
 
284 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Tlien Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Shed not a tear, but shut Ms teetli, and frown'd a terrible 
 frown ! 
 
 Then tliey seized another brave boy, — ^not amid the heat 
 of battle. 
 But in peace, behind his ploughshare, — and they loaded 
 him with chains. 
 And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad 
 their cattle. 
 Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out 
 his brains ; 
 
 Then Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Eaised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's 
 vengeance down. 
 
 And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the 
 Almighty, 
 He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and 
 torn him so ; 
 He would seize it by the vitals ; he would crush it day 
 and night ; he 
 Would 60 pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for 
 blow, 
 
 That Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town ! 
 
 Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue 
 eye grew wilder. 
 And more- sharply curved Ms , hawfc's-nose, snuffing 
 battle from afar ; 
 And he and the two hoys left, though the Kansas strife 
 wax'd milder. 
 Grew more sullen, till was oyer the bloody Border War, 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
EDMUND CLAEENCE STEDMAN. 285 
 
 Had gone crazy, as tliey reckon'd by Ms fearful glare and 
 frown. 
 
 So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter -woes 
 behind him, 
 Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born, 
 Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where 
 to find him. 
 Or whether he'd tum'd parson, or was jacketed and 
 shorn; 
 
 For OH Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's 
 gown. 
 
 He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, 
 and such trifles ; 
 But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train, 
 Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's 
 rifles ; 
 And eighteen other madmen join'd their leader there 
 again. 
 
 Says Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 " Boys ! we've got an army large enough to march and 
 ■ - take the towa. 
 
 " Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes- 
 and then arm them ; 
 Carry the County and the State, ay ! and all the potent 
 South. 
 On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise 
 to harm them — 
 These Virginians ! who believed not, nor would heed the 
 warning mouth ! " 
 
 Says Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, ' 
 " The world shall see a Eepublic, or my name is not John 
 Brown ! " 
 
286 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 'Twas the sixteentli of October, on. tbo evening of a 
 Sunday : 
 " This good work " — declared the captain — " shall be on 
 a holy night ! " — • 
 It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of 
 Monday, 
 With two eons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates — 
 black and white. 
 
 Captain Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 March'd across the bridged Potomac, and knock'd the 
 sentry down ; 
 
 Took the guarded armoury-building, and the muskets and 
 the cannon ; 
 Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by 
 one; 
 Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on. 
 And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was 
 done. 
 
 Mad Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the 
 town. 
 
 Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made 
 he; 
 It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor's 
 coup d'etat. 
 " Cut the wires ! Stop the rail-cars ! Hold the streets and 
 bridges ! " said he ; 
 Then declared the new Eepublic, with himself for guid- 
 ing stax : — 
 
 This Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown ; 
 And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the 
 town. 
 
EDMUND CLAHENCE STEDMAN. 2S7 
 
 Then was riding and railroading and expressing tere and 
 tHther ; 
 And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown 
 Volunteers 
 And the Shepherdsto^vn and Winchester Militia hasten'd 
 ■whither 
 Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grena- 
 diers. 
 
 General Brown ! 
 Osawatomie Brown ! ! 
 Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring 
 down. 
 
 But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old 
 Brown's durance, 
 An.d the effervescent valour of the Chivalry broke out. 
 When they leam'd that nineteen madmen had the mar- 
 vellous assurance — 
 Only nineteen — thus to seize the place and drive them 
 straight about ; 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Found an army come to take him, encamp'd around the 
 town. 
 
 But to storm, with all the forces I have mention'd, was 
 too risky ; 
 So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government 
 Marines, 
 Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls 
 with Bourbon whiskey. 
 Till they batter'd dovsoi Brown's castle with their 
 ladders and machines ; 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Eeceived three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his braye old 
 crown. 
 
288 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Tallylio ! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying ! 
 In they rush'd and kill'd the game, shooting lustily 
 a^way ; 
 And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late 
 for slaying, 
 Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his 
 clay; 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Biown, 
 Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid 
 him down. 
 
 How the conquerors wore their laurels ; how they hasten'd 
 on the trial ; 
 How Old Brown was placed, half dying, oh the Charles- 
 town court-house floeir ; 
 How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all 
 denial ; 
 What the brave old madman told them, — these are 
 known, the country o'er. 
 
 " Hang Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown ! " — 
 Said the judge — " and all such rebels ! " with his most 
 judicial frown. 
 
 But, Virginians! don't do it! for I tell you that the 
 flagon, 
 KUed with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first 
 pour'd by Southern hands ; 
 And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red 
 gore of the dragon. 
 May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your 
 slave-worn lands? 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 May trouble you more than ever, when you've nail'd his 
 coffin down ! 
 
 November, 1859. 
 
EDMUND CLAEElfCE STEDMAN. 289 
 
 PAN JN WALL STBJEET. 
 
 Just where the Treasury's marble front 
 
 Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations, — 
 Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont 
 
 To throng for trade and last quotations, — 
 Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold 
 
 Outrival, in the ears of people, 
 The quarter-chimes, serenely toU'd 
 
 From Trinity's undaunted steeple ; — 
 
 Even there I heard a strange wild strain 
 
 Sound high above the modern clamour. 
 Above the cries of greed and gain, 
 
 The curbstone war, the auction's hammer, 
 And swift, on Music's misty waj'S, 
 
 It led, from all this strife for millions, 
 To ancient sweet-do-nothing daj's 
 
 Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. 
 
 And as it still'd the multitude. 
 
 And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, 
 I saw the minstrel where he stood 
 
 At ease against a Doric pillar : 
 One hand a droning organ play'd. 
 
 The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashion'd 
 Like those of old) to lips that made 
 
 The reeds give out that straia impassion'd. 
 
 'Twas Pan himself had wandered here , 
 
 A-strolling through this sordid city. 
 And piping to the civic ear 
 
 The prelude of some pastoral ditty ! 
 The demigod hadcross'd the seas, — , 
 
 From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr. 
 And Syraousan times, — ^to these , , 
 
 Far shores and twenty centuries later. 
 
290 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 A ragged cap was on his head : 
 
 But — hidden thus — there was no doubting 
 That, all with crispy locks o'erspiead, 
 
 His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting : 
 His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, 
 
 Were cross'd, as on some frieze j'ou see them, 
 And trousers, patch'd of divers hues, 
 
 Conceal'd his crooked shanks beneath them. 
 
 He fill'd the quivering reeds with sound, 
 
 And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, 
 And with his goat's-eyes look'd around 
 
 Where'er the passing current drifted ; 
 And soon, as on Tiinaci ian hills 
 
 The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him. 
 Even now the tradesmen from their tills, 
 
 With clerks and porters, crowded near him. 
 
 The bulls and bears together drew 
 
 From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, 
 As erst, if pastorals be true, 
 
 Came beasts from every wooded valley ; 
 The random passers stay'd to list, — 
 
 A boxer j3i)gon, rough and merry, — 
 A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst 
 
 With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. 
 
 A one-eyed Cyclops halted long 
 
 In tatter'd cloak of army pattern, 
 And Galatea join'd the throng, — 
 
 A blow^sy, apple-vending slattern ; 
 While old Silenus stagger'd out 
 
 From some new-fangled lunch-house handy. 
 And bade the piper, with a shout, 
 
 To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! 
 
 A newsboy and a pea-nut girl 
 Like little Fauns began to caper: 
 
 His hair was all in tangled curl, 
 
 Her tawny legs were bare and taper. 
 
EDMUND CLAEENCE STEDMAN. 291 
 
 And still the gathering larger grew, 
 
 And gave its pence and crowded nigher, 
 
 While aj'e the shepherd-minstrel blew 
 His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. 
 
 O heart of Nature, beating still 
 
 With throbs her vernal passion taught her, — 
 Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, 
 
 Or by the Arethusan water ! 
 New forms may fold the speech, new lands 
 
 Arise within these ocean-portals, 
 But Music waves eternal wands, — • 
 
 Enchantress of the souls of mortalfi ! 
 
 So thought I ; — but among us trod 
 
 A man in blue, with legal baton, 
 And scoffd the vagrant demigod. 
 
 And push'd him from the step I sat on. 
 Doubting I mused upon the cry — 
 
 " Great Pan is dead ! " — and all the people 
 Went on their ways : — and clear and high 
 
 The quarter sounded from the steeple. 
 
 TOUJOUBS AMOUB. 
 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 
 At what age does Love begin ? 
 Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
 Summers three, my fairy queen ! 
 But a miracle of sweets. 
 Soft approaches, sly retreats, 
 Show the little archer there, 
 Hidden in your pretty hair ; 
 When didst learn a heart to win? 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 
 
 " Oil ! " the rosy lips reply, 
 " I can't tell you if I try. 
 'Tis so long I can't remember : 
 Ask some younger lass than I ! " 
 
292 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Faco ! 
 Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
 When does hoary Love expire. 
 When do frosts put out the fire ? 
 Can its embers burn below- 
 All that chill December snow ? 
 Care you still soft hands to press. 
 Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? 
 When does Love give up the chase? 
 Tell, tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 
 
 " Ah ! " the virise old lips reply, — 
 " Youth may pass and strength may die ; 
 But of Love I can't foretoken : 
 Ask some older sage than I ! " 
 
 THE DOORSTEP. 
 
 The conference-meeting through at last. 
 We boys around the vestry waited 
 
 To see the girls come tripping past. 
 Like snow-birds willing to be mated. 
 
 Not braver he that leaps the wall 
 By level musket-flashes bitten. 
 
 Than I, who stepp'd before them all 
 Who long'd to see me get the mitten. 
 
 But no ! she blush'd and took my arm : 
 We let the old folks have the highway. 
 
 And started toward the Maple Farm 
 Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 
 
 I can't remember what we said, — 
 
 'Twas nothing worth a song or story ; 
 
 Tet that rude path by which we sped 
 Seem'd all transform'd and in a glory. 
 
EDMUND CLAHENCE STEDMAN. 293 
 
 The snow was crisp beneath, our feet, 
 
 The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; 
 
 By hood and tippet shelter'd sweet, 
 
 Her face with youth and health was beaming. 
 
 The little hand outside her muff, — 
 
 O sculptor ! if you could but mould it ! — 
 
 So lightljT touch'd my jacket-cuff, 
 To keep it warm I had to hold it. 
 
 To have her with me there alone, — 
 
 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended. 
 
 At last we reaoh'd the foot- worn stone 
 Where that delicious journey ended. 
 
 The old folks, too, were almost home : 
 Her dimpled hand the latches finger'd, 
 
 We heard the voices nearer come, 
 Tet'on the doorstep still we linger'd. 
 
 She shook her ringlets from her hood. 
 
 And with a " Thank you, Ned ! " dissembled, 
 
 But yet I knew she understood 
 
 With what a daring wish I trembled. 
 
 A cloud pass'd kindly overhead, 
 
 The moon was slyly peeping through it, 
 
 Tet hid its face, as if it said, 
 
 " Come, now or never ! do it ! do it ! " 
 
 My lips till then had only known 
 
 The kiss of mother and of sister, 
 But somehow, full upon her own 
 
 Sweet rosy darling mouth — ^I kiss'd her ! 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, 
 
 O listless woman ! weary lover ! 
 To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill, 
 
 I'd give — ^but who can live youth over ? 
 
294 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 HELEN FISKE JACKSON.* 
 
 Bom at Amherst, JIass : 1833 — 5. 
 COEONATION. 
 
 At the king's gate the subtle noon 
 Wove filmy j'ellow nets of sun ; 
 
 Into the drowby suare too soon 
 The guards fell, one by one. 
 
 Through the king's gate, unquestion'd then, 
 A beggar went, and laugh'd — " This brings 
 
 " Me chance, at last, to see if men 
 " Fare better, being kings ! " 
 
 The king sate bow'd beneath his crown, 
 Propping his face with listless hand ; 
 
 Watching the hour-glass sifting do's\Ti 
 Too slow its shining sand. 
 
 " Poor man ! what wouldst thou have of me ? " 
 The beggar turn'd, and, pitying. 
 
 Replied, like one in a dream — " Of thee 
 " Nothing : I want the king ! " 
 
 Uprose the king, and from his head 
 Shook off the crown, and threw it by : 
 
 " man ! thon must have known " — ^he said — 
 " A greater king than I ! " 
 
 Through all the gates, unquestion'd then, 
 Went king and beggar, hand in hand. 
 
 Whisper'd the king—'- Shall I know when 
 " Before his throne I stand ? " 
 
 The beggar laugh'd. Eree winds in haste 
 Were wiping from the king's hot brow 
 
 The crimson lines the crown had traced :— 
 " This is his presence now ! " 
 * See Note 25. 
 
HELEN FISKE JACKSON. 295 
 
 At the king's gate tLe crafty noon 
 
 Unwove its yellow nets of sun ; 
 Out of their sleep in terror soon 
 
 The guards wak'd, one by one. 
 
 " Ho here ! ho there ! Has no man seen 
 " The king ? " The cry ran to and fro ; 
 
 Beggar and king, they laugh'd, I ween, 
 The laugh that free men know. 
 
 On the king's gate the moss grew gray ; 
 
 The king came not. They call'd him dead ; 
 And made his eldest son one day 
 
 Slave in his father's stead. 
 
 SPINNING. 
 
 Like a blind spinner in the sun, 
 
 I tread my days ; 
 I know that all the threads will run 
 
 Appointed ways ; 
 I know each day will bring its task. 
 And, being blind, no more I ask. 
 
 I do not know the use or name 
 
 Of that I spin ; 
 I only know that some one came, 
 
 And laid w^ithin 
 My hand the thread, and said — " Since you 
 " Are blind, but one thing you can do." 
 
 Sometimes the threads so rough and fast 
 
 And tangled fly, 
 I know wild sforms are sweeping past. 
 
 And fear that I 
 Shall fall ; but dare not try to find 
 A safer place, since I am blind. 
 
296 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 I know not why, but I am sure 
 
 That tint and place 
 In some great fabric to endure, 
 
 Past time and race. 
 My threads will have ; so from the first, 
 Though blind, I never felt accurst. 
 
 I think perhaps this trust has sprung 
 From one short word 
 
 Said over me when I "was young, — 
 So young, I heard 
 
 It, knowing not that God's name sign'd 
 
 My brow and seal'd me His though blind. 
 
 But whether this be seal or sign, 
 
 Within, without. 
 It matters not : the bond divine 
 
 I never doubt. 
 I know He sat me here, and still 
 And glad, and blind, I wait His will ; 
 
 But listen, listen, day by day, 
 
 To hear their tread 
 Who bear the finish'd web away, 
 
 And cut the thread, 
 And bring God's message in the sun — 
 " Thou poor blind spinner ! work is done ! " 
 
 TETST. 
 
 Somewhere thou awaitest. 
 And I, with lips unkiss'd. 
 
 Weep that thus to latest 
 Thou puttest off our tryst. 
 
 The golden bowls are broken. 
 The silver cords untwine ; 
 
 Alnaond flowers in token 
 
 Have bloom' d — that I am thine. 
 
GEOKGE ABNOLD. 297 
 
 Others who would fly thee 
 
 In cowardly alarms, 
 Who hate thee and deny thee, 
 
 Thou foldest in thine arms. 
 
 How shall I intreat thee 
 
 No longer to withhold ? 
 I dare not go to meet thee 
 
 lover far and cold ! 
 
 lover ! whose lips chilling 
 
 So many lips have kiss'd, 
 Come, even if unwilling. 
 
 And keep thy solemn tryst. 
 
 GEOEGE AENOLD. 
 
 Bom at New York 1834— died 1865. 
 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 
 
 'TwAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 
 
 Tall and slender, and sallow and dry ; 
 His form w^as bent, and his gait vras slow. 
 Has long, thin hair w^as as white as snow, 
 
 But a v^onderful twinkle shone in his eye ; 
 And he sang every night as he went to bed — 
 
 " Let us be happy down here below ! 
 The living should live, though the dead be dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He taught his scholars the rule of three, 
 
 Writing, and reading, and history, too ; 
 He took the little ones up on his knee, 
 For a kind old heart in his breast had he. 
 
 And the vs^ants of the littlest child he knew : 
 " Learn while you're young ! " he often said, 
 
 " There is much to enjoy, down here below ; 
 Life for the living, and rest for the dead ! " 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
298 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 With the stupidest hoys he was kind and cool, 
 
 Speaking onlj^ in gentlest tones ; 
 The rod was hardly known in his school . . . 
 Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule, 
 
 And too hard work for his poor old bones; 
 Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said: 
 
 " We should make life pleasant, down here below, 
 The living need charity more than the dead," — 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane. 
 
 With roses and woodlsine over the door ; 
 His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain. 
 But a spirit of comf jrt there held reign. 
 
 And made him forget he was old and poor ; 
 " I need so little," — ^he often said ; 
 
 " And my friends and relatives here below 
 Won't litigate over me when I am dead," — 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, 
 
 Were the sociable hours he used to pass. 
 With his chair tipp'd back to a neighbour's wall. 
 Making an unceremonious call. 
 
 Over a pipe and a fiieudly glass : 
 This was the finest pleasure, he said, 
 
 Of the many he tasted, here below ; 
 " Who has no cronies, had better be dead 1 " 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 
 
 Melted all over in sunshiny smiles; 
 He stirr'd his glass with an old-school grace. 
 Chuckled, and sipp'd, and prattled apace. 
 
 Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles : 
 " I'm a pretty old man " — ^he gently said, — 
 
 " I have linger'd a long while, here below ; 
 But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled I " 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
GEORGE ARNOLD. 299 
 
 He smoked his pipe in tlie balmy air, 
 
 Every niglit when the sun went down,- 
 While the soft wind pla3''d in his silvery hair, 
 Leaving his tenderest kisses there, 
 
 On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown : 
 And, feeling the kisses, he smil'd, and said, 
 
 'Twas a glorious M'orld, down here below; 
 " Why wait, for happiness till we are dead?" 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He sat at his door, one midsummer night. 
 
 After the sun had sunk in the west. 
 And the lingering beams of golden light 
 Made his kindly old face look warm and bright. 
 
 While the odorous night- wind whispered — "Rest!" 
 Gently, gentl3-, he bow'd his head .... 
 
 There were angels waiting for him, I know ; 
 He was sure of happiness, living or dead, — 
 
 This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 THE MATRON TEAS. 
 
 The leaves that made our forest pathways shady 
 
 Begin to rustle dovsTi upon the breeze; 
 The year is fading, like a stately lady 
 
 Who lays aside her youthful vanities : 
 Yet, while the memor}' of her beauty lingers, 
 
 She cannot wear the livery of the old, 
 So Autumn comes, to paint with frosty fingers. 
 
 Some leaves w^ith hues of crimson and of gold. 
 
 The Matron's voice fill'd all the hills and valleys 
 
 With full-toned music, when the leaves were young ; 
 While now, in forest dells and garden-alleys, 
 
 A chirping, reedy song at eve is sung ; 
 Tet sometimes, too, when sunlight gilds the morning, 
 
 A carol bursts from some half-naked tree. 
 As if, her slow but sure decadence scorning, 
 
 She woke again the olden melody. 
 
300 POETRY OF AJIEEICA. 
 
 With odorous May-buds, sweet as youthful pleasures. 
 
 She made her beauty bright and debonair: 
 But now, the sad earth yields no floral treasures. 
 
 And twines no roses for the Matron's hair : 
 Still can she not all lovely things surrender ; 
 
 Eight regal is her draperj- even now, — 
 Gold, purple, green, inwrought -with every splendour. 
 
 And clustering grapes in garlands on her brow ! 
 
 In June, she brought us tufts of fragrant clover 
 
 Eife with the wild bee's cheery monotone. 
 And, when the earliest bloom was past and over, 
 
 Offer'd us sweeter scents from fields new-mown : 
 Now, upland orchards yield, with pattering laughter. 
 
 Their red-cheek'd bounty to the groaning wain, 
 And heavy-laden racks go creeping after, 
 
 Piled high with sheaves of golden-bearded graia. 
 
 Erelong, when all to love and life are clinging, 
 
 And festal holly shines on every wall. 
 Her knell shall be the New-Tear bells, outringing ; 
 
 The drifted snow, her stainless burial-pall: 
 She fades and fails, but proudly and sedately. 
 
 This Matron Tear, who has such largess gi^en. 
 Her brow^ still tranquil, and her presence stately. 
 
 As one who, losing earth, holds fast to heaven ! 
 
 A SENSIBLE SERENADE. 
 
 The STLrf upon the distant shore is breaking ; 
 
 Bright tears of dew the roses seem to weep ; 
 But you are prejirdiced against awaking. 
 
 So I'll sing small, and let you have your sleep ! 
 Sleep, Lady, sleep ! 
 
 Tou shall not chide me for this song, love, shall you ? 
 I take gi-eat pains my voice subdued to keep, 
 
JOHN JAJMES PIATT. 301 
 
 For well I understand tlie lofty value 
 
 All sane folks set upon a wholesome sleep. 
 Sleep, Lady, sleep ! 
 
 Some fellows — at tlieir nonsense oft I wonder — 
 Sing out with voices strong and loud and deep, 
 
 Until their loved ones wish they'd go to thunder. 
 Or, like m3'self, sing small, and let them sleep. 
 Sleep, Lady, sleep ! 
 
 The grass is wet ; I find that I am sneezing ; 
 
 This kind of thing is getting rather " steep ;" 
 The thought of rheumatism isn't pleasing, 
 
 So, with your leave, I'll home to bed and sleep. 
 Sleep, Lady, sleep ! 
 
 JOHN JAMES PIATT. 
 
 Bom at Milton, Indiana, 1835 — 
 
 RIDING TO VOTE. 
 (The Old Democrat in the West.) 
 
 ToNDEE the hleak old Tavern stands — the faded sign before, 
 That years ago a setting sun and banded harvest bore : 
 The Tavern stands the same to-day — the sign you look 
 
 upon 
 Has glin tings of the dazzled sheaves, but nothing of the sun. 
 
 In Jackson's days a gay young man, with spirit hale and 
 
 blithe, 
 And form like the young hickory, so tough and tall and 
 
 lithe, 
 I first remember coming up — ^we came a waggon-load, 
 A dozen for Old Hickory — ^this rough November road. 
 
 Ah! forty years — they help a man, you see, in getting gray; 
 They can not take the manly soul, that makes a man, away ! 
 It's forty years, or near : to-day I go to vote once more ; 
 Here, half a mile away, we see the crowd about the door. 
 
302 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 My boys, in Eighteen-Sixty — •■what ! my boj's ? my men, I 
 
 mean ! 
 (No better men nor braver souls in flosh-and-blood are seen !) 
 One twenty-six, one twenty-three, rode with their father 
 
 then : 
 The ballot-box remembers theirs, — my vote I'll try again ! 
 
 The ballot-box remember theirs, the country well might 
 know — 
 
 Though in a million only two for little seem to go ; 
 
 But, somehow, when my ticket slipp'd I dream'd of Jack- 
 son's day : 
 
 The land, I thought, has need of One whose will will find 
 a way ! 
 
 Se did not waver when the need had call'd for steadfast 
 
 thought — 
 The word he spoke made plain the deed that lay behind it 
 
 wi'ought ; 
 And while I mused the Present fell, and, breathing back 
 
 the Past, 
 Again it seem'd the hale young man his vote for Jackson 
 
 cast! 
 
 Thank God it was not lost ! — ^my vote I did not cast in 
 
 vain ! 
 I go alone to drop my vote — the glorious vote again ; 
 Alone — where three together fell but one to-day shall fall ; 
 But though I go alone to-day, one voice shall speak for all ! 
 
 Tor when our men, awaking quick, from hearth and 
 
 thresl Id came. 
 
 Mine did it say — " Another day ! " but started like a 
 
 flame: 
 
 I'll vote fc them as well as me ; they died as soldiers can, 
 
 But in my vote their voices each shall claim the riglit of 
 
 man. 
 
JOHN JAMES PIATT. 303 
 
 The elder left his wife and child — ^my vote for these shall 
 
 tell; 
 The younger's sweetheart has a claim — I'll vote for her 
 
 as well ! 
 Yes ! for the myriad speechless tongues, the myriad offer'd 
 
 lives, 
 The desolation at the heart of orphans and of wives ! 
 
 I go to give my vote alone — I cnrse your shameless shame 
 Who fight for traitors here at home in Peace's holy name ! 
 I go to give my vote alone, but even while I do, 
 I vote for dead and living, all — the living dead and you ! 
 
 See yonder tree beside the field, caught in the sudden sough. 
 How conscious of its strength it leans, how straight and 
 
 steadfast now ! 
 If Lincoln bend (for all, through him, my vote I mean to 
 
 cast) — 
 What winds have blown ! what storms he's known ! the 
 
 hickoiy's straight at last ! 
 
 November, 1864. 
 
 THE OLD MAN AND THE SPEXNG-LEAVES. 
 
 Underneath the beechen tree 
 All things fall in love with me ! 
 Birds, that sing so sweetly, sung 
 Ne'er more sweet when I was young ; 
 Some sweet breeze, I will not see, 
 Steals to kiss me lovingly ; 
 All the leaves, so blithe and bright. 
 Dancing sing in Maying light ^^^ 
 
 Over me — " At last, at last, j^. 
 
 He has stolen fiom the Past." 
 
 Wherefore, leaves ! so gladly mad ? ' ' 
 I am rather sad than glad. 
 
304 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 " He is the merry cliild that play'd 
 Underneath our beechen shade. 
 Years ago ; whom all things bright 
 Gladden'd, glad with his delight ! " 
 
 I am not the child that play'd 
 
 Underneath your beechen shade ; 
 
 I am not the boy j-e sung 
 
 Songs to, in lost faiiy-tongue. 
 
 He read fairy dreams below, 
 
 Legends leaves and flowers must know ; 
 
 He dream'd fairy dreams, and ye 
 
 Changed to fairies, in your glee 
 
 Dancing, singing from the tree ; 
 
 And awaken'd fairy-land 
 
 Circled childhood's magic wand ! 
 
 Joy swell'd his heart, joy kiss'd his brow : 
 
 I am following funerals now. 
 
 Fairy shores from Time depart ; 
 
 Lost horizons flush my heart. 
 
 I am not the child that play'd 
 
 Underneath your beechen shade. 
 
 " 'Tis the merry child that play'd 
 Underneath our beechen shade 
 Tears ago ; whom all things bright 
 Loved, made glad by his delight ! " 
 
 Ah ! the bright leaves vsdll not know 
 That an old man dreams below ! 
 No ; they will not hear nor see, 
 Clapping their hands at finding me, 
 Singing, dancing from their tree ! 
 Ah ! their happy voices steal 
 Time away : again I feel. 
 While they sing to me apart. 
 The lost child come in my heart : 
 In the enchantment of the Past, 
 The old man is the child at last ! 
 
THEODORE TILTON. 305 
 
 TSE FIBST TJtTST. 
 
 She pulls a rose from her rose-tree, 
 Kissing its soul to him, — 
 
 Far over years, far over dreams 
 And tides of chances dim. 
 
 He plucks from his heart a poem ; 
 
 A flower-sweet messenger, — 
 Far over years, far over dreams, 
 
 Flutters its soul to her. 
 
 These are the -world-old lovers, 
 Clasp'd in one twilight's gleam : 
 
 Yet he is but a dream to her, 
 And she a poet's dream. 
 
 THEODORE TILTON. 
 Bom in New York City 1835— 
 
 NO AND YES. 
 
 I watch'd her at her spinning. 
 And this -was my heginning 
 Of wooing and of winning. 
 
 So cruel, so uncaring. 
 
 So scornful was her bearing, 
 
 She set me half despairing. 
 
 Tet sorry wit one uses. 
 
 Who loves, and thinks he loses 
 
 Because a maid refuses. 
 
 Love prospers in the making 
 
 By help of all its aching 
 
 And quaking and heart-breaking. 
 
 A ■woman's first denying 
 Betokens her complying 
 Upon a second trying. 
 
306 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 When first I said in pleading — 
 " Behold, my love lies bleeding ! " 
 She shook her head unheeding. 
 
 But when again I told her. 
 And blamed her growing colder. 
 She di'opp'd against my shoulder. 
 
 Then, with her eyes of splendour, 
 She gave a look so tender, 
 I knew she would surrender ! 
 
 So down the lane I led her. 
 
 And while her cheek grew redder, 
 
 I sued outright to wed her. 
 
 Good end from bad beginning ! 
 My wooing came to winning ! 
 And still I watch her spinning ! 
 
 SIB MABMADUKE'S MUSINGS. 
 
 I WON a noble fame ; 
 
 But, with a sudden frown, 
 The people snatch'd my crown, 
 And in the mire trod down 
 
 My lofty name. 
 
 I bore a bounteous purse. 
 And beggars by the way 
 Then bless'd me day by day ; 
 But I, grown poor as they, 
 
 Have now their curse. 
 
 I gain'd what men call friends ; 
 But now their love is hate. 
 And I have leam'd too late 
 How mated minds unmate, 
 
 And friendship ends. 
 
 I clasp'd a woman's breast, 
 As if her heart I knew. 
 
HAKRIET PEESCOTT SPOFFORD. 307 
 
 Or fancied would lie true ; 
 Who proved, alas ! slie too, 
 False like the rest. 
 
 I am now all bereft, — 
 
 As when some tower doth fall. 
 
 With battlements and wall. 
 
 And gate and bridge and all, — 
 And nothing left. 
 
 But I account it worth 
 
 All pangs of fair hopes cross'd — 
 
 All loves and honours lost — 
 
 To gain the heavens at cost 
 Of losing earth. 
 
 So, lest I be inclined 
 
 To render ill for ill — 
 
 Henceforth in me instill, 
 
 O God ! a sweet good will 
 To all mankind. 
 
 HAEEIET PEESCOTT SPOFFOED. 
 Bom at Calais, Maine, 1835 — 
 
 MAGDALEN. 
 
 If any woman of us all, 
 
 If any woman of the street. 
 Before the Lord should pause and fall. 
 
 And with her long hair wipe His feet, — 
 
 He whom with yearning hearts we love, 
 And fain would see w^ith human eyes 
 
 Around our living pathway move, 
 And underneath our daily skies, — 
 
 The Maker of the heavens and earth, 
 The Lord of life, the Lord of death. 
 
 With whom the universe had birth — 
 But breathing of our breath one breath,- 
 
308 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 If anj'^ woman of tlie street 
 
 Should kneel and with the lifted mesh 
 Of her long tresses wipe His feet, 
 
 And with her kisses kiss their flesh, — 
 
 How round that woman would we throng, 
 How willingly wotdd clasp her hands 
 
 Fresh from that touch divine, and long 
 To gather up the twice-blest strands ! 
 
 How eagerly with her would change 
 Our idle innocence, nor heed 
 
 Her shameful memories and strange. 
 Could we but also claim that deed. 
 
 THE NIGHT-SEA. 
 
 In the summer even. 
 
 While yet the dew was hoar, 
 I went plucking purple pansies. 
 
 Till my love should come to shore. 
 
 The fishing lights their dances 
 
 Were keeping out at sea. 
 And " Come ! " I sang — " my true love ! 
 
 Come hasten home to me ! " 
 
 But the sea it fell a-moaning, 
 
 And the white gulls rock'd thereon. 
 And the young moon dropp'd from heaven. 
 
 And the lights hid one by one. 
 
 All silently their glances 
 
 Slipp'd down the cruel sea, 
 And — " Wait ! " cried the night, and wind, and 
 storm, — 
 
 " Wait till I come to thee ! " 
 
CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTEE. 309 
 
 A SIGH. 
 
 It was nothing but a rose I gave lier, 
 
 Notliing but a rose 
 Any wind migbt rob of half its savour — 
 
 Any wind that blows. 
 
 When she took it from my trembling fingers 
 
 With a hand as chill, — 
 Ah ! the flying touch upon them lingers, 
 
 Stays, and thrills them still ! 
 
 Wither'd, faded, press'd between the pages. 
 
 Crumpled fold on fold, — 
 Once it lay upon her breast, and ages 
 
 Can not make it old. 
 
 CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTEE. 
 
 Bom at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 1835 — 
 
 TBE MINUTE-GUNS. 
 
 I STOOD within the little cove. 
 
 Pull of the morning's life and hope. 
 
 While heavily the eager waves 
 Charged thunderingly up the rocky slope. 
 
 The splendid breakers ! How they rush'd. 
 All emerald green and flashing white, 
 
 Tumultuous in the morning sun, 
 With cheer and sparkle and delight. 
 
 And freshly blew the fragrant wind. 
 The wild seawind across their tops. 
 
 And caught the spray and flung it far 
 In sweeping showers of glittering drops. 
 
310 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Within tlie cove all flash'd and foam'd 
 Witli many a fleeting rainbow hue ; 
 
 Without, gleam'd bright against the sky 
 A tender wavering line of blue, 
 
 Where toss'd the distant waves, and far 
 Shone, silver white, a quiet sail ; 
 
 And overhead the soaring gulls 
 
 With graceful pinions stemm'd the gale. 
 
 And all my pulses thrill'd with, joy, 
 
 Watching the winds' and waters' strife. 
 
 With sudden rapture, — and I cried — 
 " 0, sweet is life ! Thank God for life ! " 
 
 Sail'd any cloud across the sky. 
 Marring this glory of the sun's ? — 
 
 Over the sea, from distant forts. 
 
 There came the boom of minute-guns ! 
 
 War tidings ! Many a brave soul fled. 
 And manj' a heart the message stuns ! — 
 
 I saw no more the joyous waves ; 
 I only heard the minute-guns. 
 
 MEDBAKE AND OSFBEY. 
 
 Medrake, waving wide vrings low over the breeze-rippled 
 bight ! 
 Osprey, soaring superb overhead in the fathomless blue, 
 Graceful, and fearless, and strong ! do you thrill with the 
 morning's delight 
 Even as I ? Brings the sunshine a message of beauty 
 for you ? 
 
 the blithe breeze of the west, blowing sweet from the 
 far away land, 
 Bowing the grass heavy-headed, thick-crowding, so 
 slender and proud ! 
 
CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTER. 311 
 
 the warm, sea sparkling over witli waves by the swift 
 wind fann'd ! 
 the wide sky crystal clear, with bright islands of 
 delicate cloud ! 
 
 Feel you the waking of life in the world look'd so long in 
 the frost, 
 Beautiful birds, with the light flashing bright from your 
 banner-like wings ? 
 Osprey, soaring so high, in the deeps of the sky half lost ! 
 Medrake, hovering low w^here the sandpiper's sweet note 
 rings ! 
 
 Nothing am I to you, a blot, perhaps, on the daj' ; 
 
 Naught do I add to your joy, but precious you are in vay 
 sight ; 
 And you seem on your glad wings to lift me up into the 
 ether away, 
 And the morning divine is more radiant because of 
 your glorious flight. 
 
 SONG, 
 
 Wk sail tow'rd evening's lonely star 
 
 That trembles in the tender blue : 
 One single cloud, a dusky bar, 
 
 Burnt with dull carmine through and through. 
 Slow smouldering in the summer sky, 
 
 Lies low along the fading west. 
 How sweet to watch its splendours die. 
 
 Wave-cradled thus and wind-caress'd. 
 
 The soft breeze freshens, leaps the spray 
 
 To kiss our cheeks, with sudden cheer : 
 Upon the dark edge of the bay 
 
 Lighthouses kindle, far and near. 
 And through the warm deeps of the sky 
 
 Steal faint star-clusters, vsrhile we rest 
 In deep refreshment, thou and I, 
 
 Wave-cradled thus and wind-caress'd. 
 
312 POETRY OF AJIERICA, 
 
 How like a dream are earth and heaven 
 
 Starbeam and darkness, sky and sea : 
 Thy face, pale in the shadowy even 
 
 Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me ! 
 realize the moment's charm, 
 
 Thou dearest ! We are at life's best, — 
 Folded in God's encircling arm, 
 
 Wave-cradled thus and wind-caress'd. 
 
 JOHN ATLMEEE DOKGAN. 
 Bom 1S36— died 1867. 
 
 THE KISS. 
 
 The lyre I bear — so sweet of sound — 
 I dash it on the frozen ground. 
 For idle are its golden chords, 
 And vain of song the burning words. 
 
 I kiss thee ; let my kiss avail, 
 Where speech and music both must fail, 
 To tell the love, which else from thee 
 A secret evermore must be ! 
 
 A FABEWELL. 
 
 Faint splendours of the night of June, 
 Sweet radiance of the summer moon, 
 Upon thy pathway dwell ! 
 Farewell, Estelle ! farewell ! 
 
 Dim fragrance of the violet. 
 And of the briar-rose dew-wet. 
 Breathe from the shadowy deU ! 
 Farewell, Estelle ! farewell ! 
 
TH01LA.S BAILEY ALDEICH. 313 
 
 Par murmurs of the 6um.mer trees, 
 And voices low of dreamy seas, 
 Around thee sink and swell I 
 Farewell, Estelle ! farewell ! 
 
 And ever sweet, by thee be heard 
 The hum of bee, and song of bird. 
 And sound of holy bell ! 
 Farewell, Estelle ! farewell ! 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDEICH. 
 
 Born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 1836 — 
 
 WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN. 
 
 When tlie Sultan Sliali-Zaman 
 Goes to tlis city Ispahan, 
 Even before he gets so far 
 
 As the place where the cluster'd palm-trees are. 
 At the last of the thirty palace-gates, 
 The pet of the harem, Eose-in-Bloom, 
 Orders a feast in his favourite room, — 
 Glittering squares of colour'd ice, 
 Sweeten'd with syrup, tinctured with spice, 
 Creams, and cordials, and sugar'd dates, 
 Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, 
 Limes, and citrons; and apricots. 
 And wines that are known to Eastern princes ; 
 And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots 
 Of spiced meats and costliest fish 
 And all that the curious palate could wish. 
 Pass in and out of the cedam doors : 
 Scatter'd over mosaic floors 
 Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, 
 And a musical fountain throws its jets 
 Of a hundred colours into the Air. 
 The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, 
 And stains with the henna-plant the tips 
 Of her pearly nails, and bites her lips 
 TiU they bloom again, — ^but, alas, that rose 
 
314 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Not for the Sultan buds and blows ! 
 Not for the Sultan Shab-Zaman 
 Wlieii Tie goes to the city Ispahan. 
 
 Tben at a wave of ber sunnj' band, 
 The dancing-girls of Samarcand 
 Float in like mists from Fairy-land ! 
 And to the low voluptuous swoons 
 Of music rise and fall tbe moons 
 Of tbeir full brown bosoms. Orient blood 
 Euns in tbeir veins, sbines in tbeir eyes : 
 And tbere, in tbis Eastern Paradise, 
 Fill'd witb tbe fumes of sandal-wood, 
 And Kboten musk, and aloes and myrrb. 
 Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan. 
 Sipping tbe wines of Astrakhan ; 
 And ber Arab lover sits witb ber. 
 Tliats when tlie Sultan Shah-Zaman 
 Goes to the city Ispahan. 
 
 Now, wben I see an extra ligbt 
 Flaming, flickering on tbe nigbt, 
 From my neighbour's casement opposite, 
 I know as well as I know to pray, 
 I know as well as a tongue can say. 
 That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman 
 Has gone to the city Ispahan. 
 
 PAL ABB AS CABINOSAS. 
 
 GooD-NiGHT ! I have to say good-night 
 To such a host of peerless things ! 
 Good-night unto that fragUe band 
 All queenly -with its weight of rings. 
 Good-night to fond up-lifted eyes. 
 Good-night to chestnut braids of hair. 
 Good-night unto tbe perfect mouth 
 And all tbe sweetness nestled tbere, — 
 Tbe snowy band detains me, — then 
 I'll have to say Good-night again ! 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 315 
 
 But there will come a time, my love ! 
 
 When, if I read our stars aright, 
 
 I shall not linger by this porch 
 
 With my adieus. Till then, good-night ! 
 
 You wish the time were now ? And I. 
 
 You do not blush to wish it so ? 
 
 You would have blush'd yourself to death 
 
 To own so much a year ago. 
 
 What, both these snowy hands ! ah, then, 
 
 I'll have to say Good-night again ! 
 
 TIGEB-LILIES. 
 
 I LIKE not lady-slippers. 
 
 Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms. 
 
 Nor yet the flaky roses, 
 
 Eed, or white as snow ; 
 I like the chaliced lilies, 
 The heavy Eastern lilies. 
 The gorgeous tiger-lilies, 
 
 That in our garden grow ! 
 
 For they are tall and slender ; 
 
 Their mouths are dash'd with carmine. 
 
 And, when the wind sweeps by them, 
 
 On their emerald stalks 
 They bend so proud and graceful, — 
 They are Circassian women. 
 The favourites of the Sultan, 
 
 Adown our garden walks ! 
 
 And when the rain is falling, 
 
 I sit beside the window 
 
 And watch them glow and glisten, — 
 
 How they burn and glow ! 
 O for the burning lilies. 
 The tender Eastern lilies. 
 The gorgeous tiger-lilies, 
 
 That in our garden grow ! 
 
316 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM WINTEE. 
 Born at Gloucester, Mass : 183G — 
 
 LETJSR 
 
 (^A So7ig of Itesf) 
 
 Sweet obliYion ! blood of grape ! 
 Let me take thy hue and shape ; 
 Flood this weary heart of mine ; 
 Change it into ruddy wine ; 
 Through my veins, with golden glow. 
 Fiery spirit ! flash and flow ; 
 Deify this clod of clay. 
 And waft my willing soul away. 
 
 Sick and sad mj fancies are, — 
 Tired of peace and tired of war ; 
 Joke of jester, prank of clown 
 "Weigh my heavy eyelids down ; 
 All philosophies are drear ; 
 Music's jargon in my ear ; 
 Endless tides of empty talk 
 Bubble round me where I vs^alk ; 
 I am deafen'd by the din 
 That the world is wrangling in ; 
 I am tired of woe and bliss ; 
 I am sick of all that is ! 
 
 God of sunrise ! purple wine ! 
 Let me lose my soul in thine ; 
 Close my eyes and stop my ears 
 To all a mortal sees and hears : — 
 Eoll of drums and clash of swords. 
 Fretful snarl of angry words, 
 Church and state and bond and free, 
 Party, creed, and policy, 
 Tattle, prattle, laugh, and groan, 
 Crozier, sceptre, flag, and throne, 
 Foolish press, and grand debate 
 Which of moles is small or great. 
 
WILLIAM WINTER. 317 
 
 Who shall bo pray'd for, who shall pray, 
 And what the foreign critics saj'. 
 All avails not ; might is right ; 
 Life is vapid — day is night. 
 
 Sun of rubies ! i.ery wine ! 
 
 Burn my being into thine : 
 
 So my dream of death shall bless 
 
 Memory with forgetfulness. 
 
 No more weary, wasting thought 
 
 On a past so folly-fraught ! 
 
 No more dreams of love-lit eyes. 
 
 And silken hair, and tender sighs, 
 
 And kisses, wild and sweet, that shake 
 
 The frame of being ! — poor mistake ! 
 
 Nor that other, just as poor, — 
 
 Toil for praise of sage or boor ; 
 
 Fire, that burnishes a crown, 
 
 Fire, that bums a kingdom down, 
 
 Fire, that ravages his breast 
 
 Who takes ambition for his guest ! — - 
 
 But at last, instead of these. 
 
 Sunset cloud, and evening breeze, 
 
 Holy starlight shining dim. 
 
 Organ wail, and vesper hymn. 
 
 Cypress wreath, and asphodels, 
 
 Gentle toll of distant bells, — 
 
 All that makes the sleeper blest, 
 
 In a bed of endless rest. 
 
 When this farce of life is o'er, 
 
 Are we fretted any more ? 
 
 Do they rest, I'd like to know. 
 
 Under grass or under snow. 
 
 Who have gone that quiet way 
 
 Tou and I must go, some day ? 
 
 If they do, it seems to me 
 
 Happy were it thus to be 
 
 Sleeping where the blackberries grow, 
 
 And the bramble-roses blow, 
 
318 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 And the siinsliine pours its gold 
 On mossy rock and Avoodland old, 
 AVliile gentle winds and clouds of fleece 
 And rippling waters whisper — Peace ! 
 
 Vain the fancy : nothing dies ; 
 Falling water falls to rise ; 
 Eound and round the atoms flj', — 
 Turf and stone and sea and sky, 
 Vapour-drop and blood of man, — 
 In the inexorable plan. 
 All is motion : nothing dies : 
 Mystery of mysteries. 
 
 Eoyal road of blest escape ! 
 Sweet oblivion ! blood of grape ! 
 Let me take thy hue and shape : 
 In thy spirit floating free, 
 I shall be a revery, 
 A flitting thought, a fading dream, 
 A melting cloud, a faint moonbeam, 
 A breath, a mist, a shost of light. 
 To rise and vanish in the night, — 
 Unseeing all, by all unseen, 
 A.nd being as I had not been. 
 
 LOVE'S QUESTION. 
 
 Because love's sigh is but a sigh, 
 
 Doth it the less love's heart disclose ? 
 
 Because the rose must fade and die, 
 Is it the less the lovely rose ? 
 
 Because black night must shroud the daj'. 
 
 Shall the brave sun no more be gay ? 
 
 Because chill autumn frights the birds. 
 Shall w^e distrust that spring will come? 
 
 Because sweet words are only words. 
 Shall love for evermore be dumb ? 
 
 Because our bliss is fleeting bliss. 
 
 Shall we who love forbear to kiss ? 
 
WILLIAM WINTER. 319 
 
 Because those eyes of gentle mirth 
 
 Must some time cease my heart to thrill, 
 
 Because the sweetest voice on earth 
 Sooner or later must be still, 
 
 Because its idol is unsure, — 
 
 Shall my strong love the less endure ? 
 
 Ah no ! let lovers breathe their sighs, 
 
 And roses bloom, and music sound, 
 And passion burn on lips and ej'es. 
 
 And pleasure's merry world go round : 
 Let golden sunshine flood the sky, — 
 And let me love, or let me die ! 
 
 LOVE'S QUEEN. 
 
 He loves not well whose love is bold ! 
 
 I would not have thee come too nigh. 
 The sun's gold would not seem pure gold 
 
 Unless the sun were in the sky : 
 To take him thence and chain him near 
 Would make his beauty disappear. 
 
 He keeps his state, — do thou keep thine, 
 And shine upon me from afar ! 
 
 So shall I bask in light divine 
 
 That falls from Love's own guiding-star. 
 
 So shall thy em.inence be high. 
 
 And so my passion shall not die. 
 
 But all my life shall reach its hands 
 Of lofty longing tow'rd thy face, 
 
 And be as one who speechless stands 
 Li rapture at some perfect grace. 
 
 My love, my hope, my all, shall be 
 
 To look to heaven and look to thee. 
 
 Thine eyes shall be the heavenly lights ; 
 Thy voice shall be the summer breeze. 
 
320 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 What time it sways, on moonlit nights, 
 
 The murmuring tops of leafy trees ; 
 And I will touch thy beauteous form 
 In June's red roses, rich and warm. 
 
 But thou thyself shalt come not down 
 From that pure region far above ; 
 
 But keep thy throne and wear thy crown, 
 Queen of my heart and queen of love ! 
 
 A monarch in thy realm complete, 
 
 And I a monarch at thy feet ! 
 
 THE LAST SCENE. 
 
 Here she lieth, white and chill ; 
 
 Put your hand npon her brow : 
 Her sad heart is very still. 
 
 And she does not know you now. 
 
 Ah ! the grave's a quiet bed : 
 She will sleep a pleasant sleep. 
 
 And the tears that you may shed 
 Will not wake her, — therefore weep ! 
 
 Weep ! — for you have wrought her woe ; 
 
 Mourn ! — she mourn'd and died for you : 
 Ah ! too late we come to know 
 
 What is false and what is true. 
 
 MUE. 
 
 The autumn wind is moaning in the leaves, 
 And the long grass is rustling on my grave : 
 
 Ah ! would you have me think your heart now grieves 
 For her you would not save ? 
 
WILLIAM WINTER. 821 
 
 For I am dead : know you not I am dead ? 
 
 Wliy will you liaunt me in my grave to-night, 
 Standing above and listening overhead, 
 
 Where I am buried deep and out of sight? 
 
 Have you not wine and music, in your home. 
 And the fair form and eyes so pure and proud 
 
 With love of you ? and wherefore do you come 
 To vex me, Ij'ing silent iu my shroud ? 
 
 Seek your new love ! She calls you, and the tears 
 Are wann on her pale face, and her young breast 
 
 Is full of doubt and sorrow, — for she hears 
 
 Low whisper'd words that startle her from rest. 
 
 In from the night ! the storm begins to stir. 
 
 I (will be near, and ghostly eyes shall see 
 HowWou will kiss her lips, and say to her — 
 
 " Thine always, love ! " as once you said to me. 
 
 AFTER ALL. 
 
 The apples are ripe in the orchard. 
 The work of the reaper is done. 
 
 And the golden woodlands redden 
 In the blood of the dying sun. 
 
 At the cottage-door the grand sire 
 Sits, pale, in his easy-chair, 
 
 While a gentle wind of twilight 
 Plays with his silver hair. 
 
 A woman is kneeling beside him ; 
 
 A fair young head is prest. 
 In the first wild passion of sorrow. 
 
 Against his aged breast. 
 
 And far from over the distance 
 The faltering echoes come. 
 
322 POETRY OF AJIEEIC.V. 
 
 Of tlie flying blast of trumpet 
 And the rattling roll of drum. 
 
 Tlien the grandsire speaks, in a whisper,- 
 
 " The end no man can see ; 
 But we give him to his country. 
 
 And we give our prayers to Thee." . . 
 
 The violets star the meadows, 
 The rose-buds fringe the door, 
 
 And over the grassy orchard 
 The pink-white blossoms pour. 
 
 But the grandsire's chair is empty, 
 The cottage is dark and_ still, 
 
 There's a nameless grave on the battle-fjfeld. 
 And a new one under the hill. 
 
 And a pallid, tearless woman 
 By the cold hearth sits alone ; 
 
 And the old clock in the comer 
 Ticks on with a steady drone. 
 
 / 
 
 J 862. 
 
 A RELIC. 
 
 I WOULD not give this little flower, 
 Wither'd and wasted though it be. 
 
 For the supremest bliss of power, 
 Or fortune's proudest pageantry. 
 
 For in this little flower I hold 
 A charm from every sin to save ; 
 
 And V7hen at last my heart is cold, 
 I trust to wear it in my grave. 
 
( 323 ) 
 
 BYEON FOECEYTHE WILLSON. 
 Born 1837— died 18G7. 
 
 THE OLD SERGEANT. 
 {Jan. 1, 18G3.) 
 
 The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads 
 
 Witli wliich he used to go, 
 Ehyming the glad rounds of the happy New Years 
 
 That are now beneath the snow : 
 
 For the same awful and portentous Shadow, 
 
 That overcast the earth 
 And smote the land last year with desolation, 
 
 Still darkens every hearth. 
 
 And the Carrier hears Beethoven's mighty death-march 
 
 Come up from every mart; 
 And he hears and feels it breathing in his bosom. 
 
 And beating in his heart. 
 
 And to-day, a scarr'd and w^eather-beaten veteran, 
 
 Again he comes along. 
 To tell the story of the Old \''ear's struggles 
 
 In another New Year's song. 
 
 And the song is his, tut not so with the story ; 
 
 For the story, you must know, 
 Was told in prose to Assistant-Surgeon Austin. 
 
 By a soldier of Shiloh : 
 
 By Eobert Burton, who was brought up on the Adams, 
 
 With his death-wound in his side ; 
 And who told the story to the Assistant-Surgeon, 
 
 On the same night that he died. 
 
 But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad, 
 
 If all should deem it right. 
 To tell the story as if what it speaks of 
 
 Had happen'd but last night.-^ 
 
324 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 " Come a little nearer, Doctor ! — thank you, — ^let me take 
 
 the cup : 
 Draw your chair up, — draw it closer, — just another little 
 
 sup! 
 May-be you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty well 
 
 used up, — 
 Doctor! you've done all you could do, but I'm just a 
 
 going up ! 
 
 " Feel my piilse, sir ! if you want to, but it ain't much use 
 
 to try" 
 
 "Never say that!" said the Surgeon, as he smother' d 
 
 down a sigh ; , 
 
 '' It will never do, old comrade ! for a soldier to say me ! " 
 " "What you say will make no difference. Doctor I' when 
 
 you come to die." 
 
 " Doctor! what has been the matter?" — " Ton were very 
 
 faint, they say ; 
 You must tiy to get to sleep now." — "Doctor ! have I been 
 
 away ! — 
 " Not that anybody knows of!" — " Doctor — Doctor ! please 
 
 to stay ! 
 There is something I must tell you, and you won't have 
 
 long to stay ! 
 
 " I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now to 
 
 go; 
 Doctor, did you say I fainted ? — but it couldn't ha' been 
 
 so, — 
 For as sure as I'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh, 
 I've this very night been back there, on the old field of 
 
 Shiloh ! 
 
 " This is all that I remember. — The last time the Lighter 
 
 came. 
 And the lights had all been lower'd, and the noises much 
 
 the same. 
 He had not been gone five minutes before something call'd 
 
 my name: 
 •Orderly Sergeant — ^Eobeet Boeton!' — just that way 
 
 it call'd my name. 
 
BYRON FOECEYTHE WILLSON. 325 
 
 " And I wonder'd wlio could call me so distinctly and so 
 
 slow, 
 
 Knew it could'nt be the Lighter, — ^he could not have spoken 
 
 so, — 
 And I tried to answer — ' Here, sir ! ' but I couldn't mate 
 
 it go; 
 For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make it go ! 
 
 " Then I thought : It's all a nightmare, all a humbug and 
 
 a bore ; 
 Just another foolish grape-vine — and it won't come any 
 
 more; 
 But it came, sir ! notwithstanding, just the same w^ay as 
 
 before : 
 'Orderly Sergeant — Egbert Butrton!' — even plainer 
 
 than before. 
 
 " That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light. 
 And I stood, beside the river, where we stood that Sunday 
 
 night. 
 Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite. 
 When the river was perdition and all hell was opposite ! — 
 
 " And the same old palpitation came again in all its 
 
 power. 
 And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial 
 
 Tower ; 
 And the same mysterious voice said : ' It is the eleventh 
 
 hour! 
 Orderly Sergeaut — Egbert Borton — it is the eleventh 
 
 HOUR ! ' 
 
 " Doctor Austin ! — what day is this ? " — " It is Wednesday 
 
 night, you know." — 
 " Yes ! — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right good 
 
 time below ! 
 What tiine is it ? Doctor Austin ! " — " Nearly twelve." — 
 
 " Then don't you go ! 
 Can it he that all this happen'd — all this — ^not an hour 
 
 afro ! 
 
326 POETRY OF AJIERICA. 
 
 " Tliere was where the gunboats open'd on the dark 
 
 rebellious host; 
 And where ^Vebster semicircled his last guns upon the 
 
 coast ; 
 There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else 
 
 their ghost, — 
 And the same old transport came and took me over — 
 
 or its ghost ! 
 
 " And the old field laj' before me all deserted far and wide ; 
 There was where they fell on Prentiss, — there McClernand 
 
 met the tide ; 
 There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurl- 
 
 but's heroes died, — 
 Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept 
 
 charging till he died. 
 
 " There was where Lew Wallace show'd them, he was 
 
 of the canny kin, ; 
 
 There was where old Nelson thunder'd, and where Eous- 
 
 seau waded in ; 
 There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all began to 
 
 win — 
 There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we 
 
 began to win. 
 
 " Now, a shroud of snow and silence over everything was 
 
 spread ; 
 And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my 
 
 head 
 I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I w^as 
 
 dead, — 
 For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the 
 
 dead! 
 
 '' Death and silence ! — Death and silence : all around me 
 
 as I sped ! 
 And behold, a mighty Tower, as if builded to the dead, — 
 To the Heaven of the heavens, lifted up its mighty head. 
 Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seem'd waving 
 
 from its head ! 
 
BTRON FORCEYTHE WILLSON. 327 
 
 " Eound and miglity-based it tower' d — up into tlie 
 
 infinite— 
 And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so 
 
 bright ; 
 Por it shone like solid sunshine ; and a winding stair of 
 
 Wound around it and .around it till it wound clear out 
 of sight ! 
 
 " And, behold, as I approach'd it^with a rapt and dazzled 
 
 stare, — • 
 Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great 
 
 Stair, — 
 Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of — ' Halt, and who 
 
 goes there ? ' 
 , 'I'm a friend.' — I said — -'if you are.' — 'Then advance, 
 
 sir ! to the Stair ! ' — 
 
 " I advanced ! — That sentry. Doctor ! was Elijah Ballan- 
 
 tyne ! — 
 First of all to fall on Monday, after we had form'd the 
 
 line! — 
 ' Welcome, my old Sergeant ! welcome ! Welcome by that 
 
 countersign ! ' 
 And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of 
 
 mine! 
 
 " As he grasp'd my hand, I shudder'd, thinking only of 
 the grave ; 
 
 But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and 
 bloodless glaive : 
 
 ' That's the way, sir ! to Head-quarters.' — ' What Head- 
 quarters ? ' — ' Of the Brave.' 
 'But the great Tower ? ' — ' That ' — he answer'd — ' is the 
 way, sir ! of the Brave ! ' — 
 
 " Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of 
 
 light; 
 At my own so old and tatter'd, and at his so new and 
 
 bright; 
 
328 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 ' All ! ' said lie — ' you liave forgotten the New Uniform 
 to-niglit, — 
 Hurry back, for you must be liere at just twelve o'clock 
 to-niglit ! ' — 
 
 " And tlie next thing I remember, you were sitting iJtere, 
 
 and I 
 
 Doctor ! did you hear a footstep ? Hark ! — God bless you 
 
 all ! Good-bye ! 
 Doctor ! please to give my musket and my knapsack, when 
 
 I die, 
 To my Son — my Son that's coming, — he won't get here 
 
 tin I die ! 
 
 " Tell him his old father bless'd him as he never did 
 
 before, — 
 And to carry that old musket Hark ! a knock is at the 
 
 door ! — 
 Till the Union See ! it opens ! "— " Father ! Father ! 
 
 speak once more ! " — 
 " Bless you ! " — gasp'd the old gray Sergeant, and he lay 
 
 and said no more ! 
 
 THU LAST WATCH. 
 1. 
 
 The stars shine down through the shivering boughs 
 
 And the moonset sparkles against the spire ; 
 There is not a light in a neighbour's house, 
 Save one that bumeth low, 
 
 And seemeth almost spent ! 
 With shadowy forms in dark attire 
 Flickering in it to and fro, 
 
 As if in pain and doubt 
 
 And heads bow'd dovm in tears ! 
 Hark! 
 Was there not lament ? — — 
 Behold, behold the light burns out ! 
 The picture disappears ! 
 
BYRON FORCEYTHE WILLSON. 329 
 
 2. 
 
 Ye who witli such sleepless sleight, 
 In the chamber out of sight, 
 
 Whispering low. 
 
 To and fro 
 Your swift needles secretly 
 At the dead of night do ply, — 
 
 What is it that ye sew ? 
 
 3. 
 
 "Hark! hark! 
 Heard ye not the sounds aloof, 
 As of winds or wings that swept the roof? 
 
 Band of heavenly voices blending, 
 
 Choir of seraphim ascending ? 
 
 Hark! hark!" 
 
 4. 
 , " Away ! away ! 
 Behold, behold it is the day ! 
 Bear her softly out of the door ; 
 And upward, upward, upward soar ! " 
 
 TKE ESTBAT. 
 
 " Now tell me, my merry woodman ! 
 
 Why standest so aghast ? " — 
 " My lord ! — 'twas a beautiful creature 
 
 That hath but just gone past ! " — 
 
 " A creature — what kind of a creature ? " — 
 " Nay, now, but I do not know ! " — 
 
 " Humph ! — ^what did it make you think of ? ' 
 " The sunshine or the snow." — 
 
 " I shall overtake my horse then." — 
 
 The woodman open'd his eye : 
 The gold fell all around him. 
 
 And a rainbow spann'd the sky. 
 
330 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 AUXmiN SONG. 
 
 In Spring the Poet is glad. 
 
 And in Summer the Poet is gay ; 
 But in Autumn the Poet is sad, 
 
 And has something sad to say : 
 
 Por the Wind moans in the Wood, 
 And the Leaf drops from the Tree ; 
 
 And the cold Eain falls on the graves of the Good, 
 And the Mist comes up from the Sea : 
 
 And the Autumn Songs of the Poet's soul 
 
 Are set to the passionate grief 
 Of Winds that sough and Bells that toll 
 
 The Dirge of the Palling Leaf. 
 
 WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 
 
 Bom in Oliio 1837— 
 BEFORE TBE GATE. 
 
 They gave the whole long day to idle laughter. 
 
 To fitful song and jest, 
 To moods of soberness as idle, after. 
 
 And silences, as idle too as the rest. 
 
 But vrhen at last upon their way returning. 
 
 Taciturn, late, and loath, 
 Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning. 
 
 They reach'd the gate, one sweet spell hinder'd them 
 both. 
 
 Her heart was troubled with a subtil anguish 
 
 Such as but w^omen know 
 That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish. 
 
 And what they wotild, would rather they would not so; 
 
 Till he said, — man-like nothing comprehending 
 
 Of all the wondrous guile 
 That women won win themselves with, and bending 
 
 Eyes of relentless asking oij her the while, — 
 
FRANCIS BRET HARTE. ool 
 
 " All, if beyond this gate the path united 
 
 Our steps as far as death. 
 And I might open it ! " — His voice, affiighted 
 
 At its own daring, falter'd under his breath. 
 
 Then she — whom both his faith and fear enchanted 
 
 Far beyond words to tell, 
 Peeling her woman's finest wit had wanted 
 
 The art he had that knew to blunder so well — 
 
 Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking, 
 
 " Shall we not be too late 
 For tea ? " she said. " I'm quite worn out with walking ; 
 
 Yes, thanks ! your arm ! And will you — open the 
 gate?" 
 
 \ THE POETS FEIENVS. 
 
 Tne Eobin sings in the elm ; 
 
 The cattle stand beneath. 
 Sedate and grave, w^ith great brown eyes. 
 
 And fragrant meadow-breath. 
 
 They listen to the flatter'd bird. 
 The wise-looking, stupid things ! 
 
 And they never understand a word 
 Of all the Eobin sings. 
 
 FEANCIS BEET HAETE. 
 
 Born at Albany, New York, 1837— 
 
 THE HEATHEN CHINEE. 
 
 Which I wish to remark — 
 
 And my language is plain — 
 That for ways that are dark. 
 
 And for tricks that are vain. 
 The Heathen Chinee is peculiar. 
 
 Which the same I would rise to explain. 
 
832 POETRY OF AilERICA. 
 
 Ah-Sin was his name ; 
 
 And I sliall not deny 
 In regard to the same 
 
 What that name might imply : 
 But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 
 
 As I frequent remark'd to Bill Nye. 
 
 It was August the third ; 
 
 And quite soft was the skies : 
 Which it might be inferr'd 
 
 That Ah-Sin was likewise ; 
 Yet he play'd it that day upon William 
 
 And me in a way I despise. 
 
 Which w^e had a small game, 
 
 And Ah-Sin took a hand : 
 It was euchre. The same 
 
 He did not understand ; 
 But he smiled as he sat by the table. 
 
 With the smile that was childlike and bland. 
 
 Yet the cards they were stock'd 
 
 In a way that I grieve ; 
 And my feelings were shock'd 
 
 At the state of Nye's sleeve, — 
 Which was stuffd ftill of aces and bowers. 
 
 And the same with intent to deceive. 
 
 But the hands that were play'd 
 
 By that Heathen Chinee, 
 And the points that he made, 
 
 Were quite frightful to see, — 
 Till at last he put down a right bower. 
 
 Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 
 
 Then I look'd up at Nye, 
 
 And he gazed upon me ; 
 And he rose with a sigh. 
 
 And said — " Can this be ? 
 We are ruin'd by Chinese cheap labour," — 
 
 And he went for that Heathen Chinee. 
 
FJRANCIS BBET HARTE. o 
 
 In tlie Fcene that ensued 
 
 I did not tate a hand ; 
 But the floor it was strew'd 
 
 Like the leaves on the strand 
 With the cards that Ah-Sin had been hiding. 
 
 In the game " he did not understand." 
 
 In his sleeves, which were long. 
 
 He had twenty-four packs, — 
 Which was coming it strong, 
 
 Yet I state hut the facts ; 
 And we found on his nails, which were taper, 
 
 What is frequent in tapers — that's wax. 
 
 Which is why I remark, 
 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for ways that are dark, 
 J And for tricks that are vain, 
 The Heathen Chinee is peculiar : 
 
 Which the same I am free to maintain. 
 
 " JIM." 
 
 Sat there ! P'r'aps 
 Some on you chaps 
 Might know Jim Wild ? 
 Well, — ^no offence : 
 Thar ain't no sense 
 In gittin' riled ! 
 
 Jim w^as mj chum 
 
 Up on the Bar : 
 That's why I come 
 
 Down from up yar^ 
 Lookin' for Jim. , 
 Thank ye, sir ! Tou 
 Ain't of that crew, — 
 
 Blest if you are ! 
 
33 i POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Money ? — Not mucli : 
 That ain't my kind : 
 
 I ain't no such. 
 
 Rum? — I don't mind,- 
 
 Seein' it's you. 
 
 Well, this yer Jim, 
 Did you know him ? — 
 Jess 'bout your size ; 
 Same kind of eyes ; — 
 AVell, that is strange : 
 Why, it's two year 
 Since he came here, 
 Sick, for a change. 
 Well, here's to us : 
 
 Eh? 
 The h , j'ou say ! 
 
 Dead ?— 
 That little cuss? 
 
 What makes you star, — 
 You over thar ? 
 Can't a man drop 
 's glass in j'er shop 
 But you must rar' ? 
 It wouldn't take 
 
 D much to break 
 
 You and your bar. 
 
 Dead! 
 Poor — -little — Jim ! 
 — Why, thar was me, 
 Jones, and Bot Lee, 
 Harry and Ben, — 
 No-acoouut men : 
 Then to take 7iim .' 
 
 Well, thar— aood-by,— 
 
 No more, sir ! — I 
 
 Eh? 
 
FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 335 
 
 What's that you say ? — 
 Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
 No ! Yes ! By Jo ! 
 
 Sold! 
 Sold ! Why, you limb ' 
 You emery, 
 
 Dem'd old 
 Long-legged Jim ! 
 
 GRIZZLY. 
 
 Coward, — of heroic size. 
 In whose lazy muscles lies 
 Strength we fear and yet despise ! 
 Savage, — whose relentless tusks 
 Are content with acorn husks ! 
 Robber, — whose exploits ne'er soar'd 
 O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard ! 
 Whisker'd chin, and feeble nose, — • 
 Claws of steel on baby toes, — 
 Here, in solitude and shade. 
 Shambling, shuffling, plantigrade, 
 Be thy courses undismay'd. 
 
 Here, where Nature makes thy bed. 
 Let thy rude, half-human tread 
 
 Point to hidden Indian springs. 
 Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses, 
 
 Hover'd o'er by timid wings, 
 Wbere the wood-duck lightly passes, 
 Where the wild-bee holds her sweets, — 
 Epicurean retreats. 
 Fit for thee, and better than 
 Fearful spoils of dangerous man ! 
 
 In thy fat-jowl'd deviltry 
 Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; 
 Thou mayst levy tithe and dole ; 
 
 Thou shalt spread, the woodland cheer. 
 
336 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 From the pilgrim taking toll ; 
 
 Match thy cunning with his fear; 
 Eat, and drink, and have thy fill ; 
 
 Yet remain an outlaw still. 
 
 JOHN HAY. 
 
 Born at Salem, ludiana, 1839 — 
 
 JIM BLUDSO 
 (of tlie Prairie BelU). 
 
 Wall, no ! I can't tell whar he lives, 
 
 Becase he don't live, you see ; 
 Leastways, he's got out of the habit 
 
 Of livin' like you and me. 
 Whar have you been for the last three /ear 
 
 That you haven't heard folks tell 
 How Jimmy Bludso pass'd in his checks 
 
 The night of the Prairie Belle ? 
 
 He weren't no saint,- — them engineers 
 
 Is all pretty much alike, — 
 One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 
 
 And another one here, in Pike ; 
 A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward hand in a row, 
 But he never funk'd, and he never lied, — 
 
 I reckon he never know'd how. 
 
 And this "was all tiie religion he had, — 
 
 To treat his engine well, 
 Never be pass'd on the river. 
 
 To mind the pilot's bell. 
 And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire— 
 
 A thousand times he swore — 
 He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last soul got ashore. 
 
JOHN HAY. 337 
 
 All boats lias their daj^ on tlie Mississip, 
 
 And lier day come at last, — 
 The Movaster was a better boat. 
 
 But the Belle she wouldnH be pass'd ; 
 And so she come tearin' along that night — 
 
 The oldest craft on the line — 
 With a nigger squat on her safety-valve. 
 
 And her furnace cramni'd, rosin and pine. 
 
 The fire burst out as she clared the bar, 
 
 And burnt a hole in the night. 
 And quick as a flash she turn'd, and made 
 
 For that ■wilier-bank on the right ; 
 There Tvas runnin' and cussin', but Jim yell'd out, 
 
 Over all the infernal roar — 
 "'•I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 ^Till the last galoot's ashore." 
 
 Through the hot, black breath of the bumin' boat 
 
 Jim Bludso's voice was heard, 
 And they all had trust in his cussedness, 
 
 And know'd he would keep his word : 
 And, sure's you're born, they all got off 
 
 Afore the smokestacks fell, — 
 And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
 
 In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 
 
 He weren't no saint, — but at jedgment 
 
 I'd run my chance with Jim, 
 'Longside of some pious gentlemen 
 
 That wouldn't shook hands with him : 
 He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, — 
 
 And went for it thar and then ; 
 And Christ ain't going to be too hard 
 
 On a man that died for men. . 
 
338 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 LITTLE BREECRES. 
 
 I don't go much on religion, 
 
 I never ain't liad no show ; 
 But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir ! 
 
 On theTtiandful o' things I know. 
 T don't pan out on the prophets 
 
 And free-will, and that sort of thing, — 
 But I b'lieve in God and the angels. 
 
 Ever sence one night last spring. 
 
 I come into town -with some turnips. 
 
 And my little Gabe come along, — 
 No four-year-old in the county 
 
 Could beat him for pretty and strong,-,- 
 Peart and chipper and sassj', 
 
 Always ready to swear and fight, — 
 And I'd lamt him to chaw terbacker 
 
 Just to keep his milk-teeth white. 
 
 The snow come down like a blanket 
 
 As I pass'd by Taggart's store ; 
 I went in for a jug of molasses 
 
 And left the team at the door. 
 They scared at something and started, — 
 
 I heard one little squall, 
 And hell-to-split over the prairie 
 
 Went team, Little Breeches, and all. 
 
 Hell-to-split over the prairie ! 
 
 I was almost froze with skeer ; 
 But we rousted up some torches. 
 
 And saroh'd for 'em far and near. 
 At last we struck horses and waggon, 
 
 Snow'd Tinder a soft white mound, 
 Upsot, dead beat, — ^but of little Gabe 
 
 No hide nor hair was found. 
 
JOHN HAY, 339 
 
 And hero all hope sour'd on me, 
 
 Of my fellow-critters' aid, — 
 I jest flopp'd down on my marrow-bones, 
 
 Crotch-deep in the snow, and pray'd. 
 
 By this the torches was play'd out. 
 
 And me and Isrnl Parr 
 Went oif for some wood to a sheepfold 
 
 That he said was somewhar thar. 
 
 We found it at last, and a little shed 
 
 Where they shut up the lambs at night. 
 We look'd in and seen them" huddled thar. 
 
 So warm and sleejDy and white ; 
 And THAE sot Little Breeches and chirp'd. 
 
 As peart as ever you see, 
 " I want a chaw of ter backer. 
 
 And that's what's the matter of me." 
 
 How did he git thar ? Angels. 
 
 He could never have walk'd in thai storm. 
 They jest scoop'd down and toted him 
 
 To whar it was safe and warm. 
 And I think that saving a little child. 
 
 And bringing him to his own. 
 Is a dern'd sight better business 
 
 Than loafing around The Throne. 
 
 \' 
 
 A '-WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory 
 Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgat-ory : 
 " Have mercy, mighty angel ! hear my story ! — 
 
 " I loved, — and, blind with passionate love, I fell. 
 Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell. 
 For God is just, and death for sin is well. 
 
 " I do not rage against His high decree, 
 
 ,Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ! 
 
 But for my love on earth who mourns for me. ' 
 
540 POETP.T OF AMERICA. 
 
 " Great Spirit ! Let ma see my love again 
 And comfort him one Jiour, and I were fain 
 To ■pa.j a thousand years of fire and pain."— 
 
 Then said the pitying angel — " Nay, repent 
 That wild vow ! Look, the dial-finger's bent 
 Do-«Ti to the last hour of thy punishment ! " — 
 
 But still she wail'd — "I pray thee, let me go ! 
 I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. 
 0, let me soothe himi in his bitter woe ! " — 
 
 The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, 
 And upward, joyous, like a rising star, 
 She rose and vanish'd in the ether far. 
 
 But soon adown the dying sunset sailing. 
 And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, , 
 She flutter'd back, with broken-hearted wailiiig. 
 
 She sobb'd — " I found him by the summer sea 
 
 Heclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, — 
 
 She curl'd his hair and kiss'd him. Woe is me ! "- 
 
 She wept, — " Now let my punishment begin ! 
 I have been fond and foolish. Let me in 
 To expiate my sorrow and my sin ! " — 
 
 The angel answer'd — " Nay, sad soul ! go higher ! 
 To be deceived in your true heart's desire 
 Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire ! " 
 
 CINCINNATUS HINEE ("JOAQUIN") MILLEE. 
 
 Born 1S40— 
 
 KIT CARSON'S BWE* 
 
 " EuN ? Now you bet you ; I rather guess so ! 
 But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache, boy, whoa ! 
 No, you wouldn't believe it to look at his eyes. 
 But he is, badger blind, and it happen'd this wise. 
 * See Note 26. 
 
CINCINNATUS HINEK ("JOAQUIN") MILLER. 341 
 
 " We lay in the grasses and tlie sun-burnt clover 
 That spread on the ground like a great hrown cover 
 North'ward and southward, and west and away 
 To the Brazos, to where our lodges lay. 
 One broad and unbroken sea of brown, 
 Awaiting the curtains of night to come down 
 To cover us over and conceal our flight 
 With my bro'i\Ti bride, won from an Indian town 
 That lay in the rear the full ride of a night. 
 
 " We lounged in the grasses — her eyes were in mine, 
 And her hands on my knee, and her hair was as wine 
 In its wealth and its flood, pouring on and all over 
 H'^r bosom wine-red, and press'd never by one ; 
 Arid her touch was as warm as the tinge of the clover 
 Burnt brown as it reach'd to the kiss of the sun ; 
 Andy her words w^ere as low as the lute-throated dove, 
 And 3(8 laden with love as the heart when it beats 
 In its hot eager answer to earliest love. 
 Or the bee hurried home by its burthen of sweets. 
 
 " We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels, 
 Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride ; 
 And the heavens of blue and the harvest of brown 
 And beautiful clover were welded as one. 
 To the right and the left, in the light of the sun. 
 ' Porty full miles if a foot to ride, 
 Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 
 Of red Camanches are hot on the track 
 When once they strike it. Let the sun go down 
 Soon, very soon,' — mutter 'd bearded Old Eevels 
 As he peer'd at the sun, lying low on his back. 
 Holding fast to his lasso. Then he jerk'd at his steed 
 And he sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around, 
 And then dropp'd, as if shot, with his ear to the ground; 
 Then again to his feet, and to me, to my bride. 
 While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud. 
 His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud. 
 And his voice loud and shriU, as if blovm from a reed, — 
 ' Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle your steed. 
 
342 POETRY OF AJIERICA. 
 
 And speed you if ever for life you would speed, 
 And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride 
 Por the plain is aflame, the pi-airie on fire, 
 And feet of wild horses hard flj'ing before 
 I hear like a sea breaking high on the shore. 
 While the buifalo come like a surge of the sea. 
 Driven far bj' the flame, driving fast on us three 
 As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.' — • 
 
 "We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein. 
 Threw them on, sinch'd them on, sinch'd them over again. 
 And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheers. 
 Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold. 
 Cast aside the catenas red-spangled with gold. 
 And gold-mounted Colts', the companions of years, / 
 Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a breath, / 
 
 And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the ho^se — 
 As bare as when born, as when new from the hani^ 
 Of God — without word, or one w^ord of command. 
 Turn'd head to the Brazos in a red race with death, 
 Tum'd head to the Brazos with a breath in the hair 
 Blowing hot from a king leaving death in his course ; 
 Tum'd head to the Brazos with a sound in the air 
 Like the msh of an army, and a flash in the eye 
 Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the sky. 
 Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black rolling sea 
 Hushing fast upon us, as the wind sweeping free 
 And afar from the desert blew hollow and hoarse. 
 
 " Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall. 
 Not a kiss from my bride, not a look nor low call 
 Of love-note or courage ; but on o'er the plain 
 So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, 
 With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, 
 Eode we on, rode we three, rode we nose and gray nose, 
 Beaching long, breathing loud, as a, creviced wind blows : 
 Yet we broke not a whisper, we breath'd not a prayer, 
 There was work to be done, there was death in the air. 
 And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. 
 
CINCINNATUS HINER (" JOAQUIN ") MILLER, 343 
 
 " Gray nose to gray nose, and each steady mustang 
 Stretch'd neck and stretcla'd nerve till tlie arid earth, rang. 
 And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck 
 Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. 
 Twenty miles ! , . . thirty miles ! . . . a dim distant 
 
 speck . . . 
 Tiien a long reaching Une, and the Brazos in sight. 
 And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. 
 I atood in my stirrup and look'd to my right — 
 Burt Eevels was gone ; I glanced by my shoulder 
 Ana saw his horse stagger ; I saw his head drooping 
 Hard down on his breast, and his naked breast stooping 
 Low\iown to the mane, as so swifter and bolder 
 Ean jteaohing out for us the red-footed fire. 
 To right and to left the black buffalo came, 
 A terrfflDle surf on a red sea of flame 
 Eushint on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher. 
 And he^de neck to neck to a buffalo bull. 
 The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full 
 Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire 
 Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud 
 And unearthly, and up through its lowering cloud 
 Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire. 
 While his keen crooked horns, through the storm of his 
 
 mane. 
 Like black lances lifted and lifted again ; 
 And I look'd but this once, for the fire lick'd through. 
 And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. 
 
 " I look'd to my left then — and nose, neck, and shoulder 
 Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs ; 
 An.d up through the black blovsdng veil of her hair 
 Did beain full in mine her two marvellous eyes. 
 With a longing and love, yet with a look of despair 
 And of piiy for me, as she felt the smoke fold her. 
 And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. 
 Her sinking steed falter'd, his eager ears fell 
 To and fro and lunsteady, and all the neck's swell 
 Did subside and recede, and the nerves fall as dead. 
 Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded his head. 
 
344 ■ POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 With a look of deliglit ; for nor courage nor bribe, 
 
 Nor naught but m}' bride, could have brought him to me. 
 
 For he was hor father's, and at South Santafeo 
 
 Had once won a whole herd, sweeping every thing down 
 
 In a race where the world came to run for the crown. 
 
 And so when I won the true heart of my bride — 
 
 My neighbour's and deadliest enemy's child, 
 
 And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe — 
 
 She brought nie this steed to the border the night ; 
 
 She met Eevels and me in her perilous flight i 
 
 From the lodge of the chief to the North Brazos side ; / 
 
 And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled, 
 
 As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride 
 
 The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue 
 
 I should surely escape without other ado 
 
 Than to ride, without blood, to the North Brazos si 
 
 And await her — and -wait till the next hollow moon 
 
 Hung her horn in the palms, -^vhen surely and soe(n 
 
 And swift she would join me, and all would be vrell 
 
 Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell 
 
 Prom the front, and went down in the ocean of fire. 
 
 The last that I saw was a look of delight 
 
 That I should escape — a love — a desire — • 
 
 Tet never a word, not one look of appeal. 
 
 Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel 
 
 One instant for her in my terrible flight. 
 
 " Then the rushing of fire around me and under. 
 And the howling of beasts and a sound as of thunder — ■ 
 Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over. 
 As the passionate flame reach'd around them, and wove 
 
 her 
 Red hands in their hair, and kiss'd hot till they died — • 
 TiU. they died with a wild and a desolate moan, 
 As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone . . . 
 And into the Brazos ... I rode all alone — 
 All alone, save only a horse long-limb'd. 
 And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. 
 Then just as the terrible sea came in 
 And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide. 
 
JAMES E. RANDALL. 345 
 
 Till the tide block'd up and the swift stream brimm'd 
 In eddies, we struok on the opposite side. 
 
 " Sell Pache — blind Paohe ? Now, mister ! look here ! 
 You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer 
 Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier, 
 l^or the ways they were rough and Camanches were near ; 
 But you'd better pack up, sir ! That tent is too small 
 For us two after this ! Has an old mountaineer, 
 Do you book-men believe, got no tum-tum at all ? 
 Sell Pache ! You buy him ! A bag full of gold ! 
 You show him ! Tell of him the tale I have told ! 
 Why, he bore me through fire, and is blind, and is old ! 
 . . . Now pack up your papers, and get up and spin 
 To thorn cities you tell of . . . Blast you and your tin ! " 
 
 \ 
 
 JAMES E. EANDALL. 
 MABTLAND.* 
 
 The despot's heel is on thy shore, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 His torch is at thy temple door, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Avenge the patriotic gore 
 That fleck'd the streets of Baltimore, 
 And be the battle-queen of yore, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Hark to thy wandering son's appeal, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 My mother State ! to thee I kneel, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 For life and death, for woe and weal. 
 Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
 And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Thou vTilt not cower in the dust, 
 Maryland ! 
 
 * Sec Note 27. 
 
346 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Thy beaming sword sliall never rust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Eemem'ber Carroll's sacred trust ; 
 Remember Howard's warlike thrnst ; 
 And all thy slumberers with the just, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maiyland ! 
 
 Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 
 
 Marjdand ! 
 Come ! with thy panoplied array, 
 
 Marj'land ! 
 With Einggold's spirit for the fray, 
 With Watson's blood, at Monterej-, 
 With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, 
 
 Maryland ! My. Maryland ! 
 
 Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 
 
 Mar3'land ! 
 Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wron^, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come ! to thine own heroic throng. 
 That stalks with Liberty along. 
 And give a new key to thy song, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant's chain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Yirginia should not call in vain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 She meets her sisters on the plain : 
 " Sic semper " is the proud refrain. 
 That baffles minions back amain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Arise in majesty again, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 I see the blush upon thy cheek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 But thou wast ever bravely meek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 347 
 
 But lo ! tliere surges fortli a sliriek 
 From, hill to hill, from creek to creek : 
 Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thou -svilt not crook to his control, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Better the fire upon thee roll. 
 Better the blade, the shot, the bowl. 
 Than crucifixion of the soul, 
 
 Maryland ! My Marj'land ! ' 
 
 I hear the distant thunder hum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 '.The old Line's bugle, fife and drum, 
 \ Maryland ! 
 
 She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb : 
 Suzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
 She breathes — she burns! she'll come! she'll come! 
 
 Maryland ! My.Maryland ! 
 
 KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 
 Bom at Fryebiirg, Maine, ISiO — 
 
 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
 He turn'd them into the river lane ; 
 
 One after another he let them pass, 
 Then fasten'd the meadow bars again. 
 
 Under the willows, and over the lull. 
 He patiently follow'd their sober pace. 
 
 The merry whistle for once was still, 
 'And something shadow'd the sunny face. 
 
 Only a boy 1 and his father had said 
 He never could let his youngest go : 
 
348 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Two already were lying dead 
 
 Under the feet of the trampling foe. 
 
 But after the evening work was done, 
 
 And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp. 
 
 Over his shoulder he slung his gun, 
 
 And stealthily follow'd the foot-path damp, 
 
 Across the clover and through the wheat, 
 With resolute heart and purpose grim. 
 
 Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, 
 And the blind bat's flitting startled him. 
 
 Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
 
 And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom. 
 And now, when the cows came back at night, 
 
 The feeble father drove them home. / 
 
 ,/ 
 Por news had come to the lonely farm ,/ 
 
 That three were lying where two had lain. 
 And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
 
 Could never lean on a son's again. 
 
 The summer day grew^ cool and late : 
 
 He went for the cows when the work was done ; 
 
 But down the lane, as he open'd the gate. 
 He saw them coming, one by one. 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 
 Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 
 
 Cropping the butter-cnps out of the grass ; — 
 But who was it following close behind ? 
 
 Loosely swung in the idle air 
 
 The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
 And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 
 
 Look'd out a face that the father knew. 
 
 Por Southern prisons will sometimes yawn. 
 And yield their dead unto life again ; 
 
 And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
 In golden glory ^t last may wane. 
 
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 349 
 
 The great tears sprung to their meeting ej-es, — 
 For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb ; 
 
 And under the silent evening skies 
 
 Together they folio w'd the cattle home. 
 
 BY THE AFPLE-TBEE. 
 
 It was not anger that changed him of late 
 It was not diffidence made him shy ; 
 
 Yon branch that has blossom'd above the gate 
 Could guess the riddle — ^and so can I. 
 
 What does it mean when the bold eyes fall, 
 4 And the ready tongue at its merriest trips ? 
 TVshat potent influence holds in thrall 
 The eager heart and the burning lips ? 
 
 Ah me ! to falter before a girl 
 
 Whose shy lids never would let you know 
 (Save for the lashes' wilful curl) 
 
 The pansy-purple asleep below. 
 
 Nothing to frighten a man away — 
 Only a cheek like a strawberry-bed ; 
 
 Only a ringlet's gold astray, 
 
 And a mouth like a baby's, dewy red. 
 
 Ah, baby mouth ! with your dimpled bloom. 
 If but yon blossomy apple-bough 
 
 Could whisper a secret learn'd in the gloom. 
 That deepens its blushes even now ! 
 
 No need, for the secret at last is known 
 
 Yet so, I fancy, it might not be 
 Had he not met her, by chance, alone. 
 
 There in. the lane, by the apple-tree. 
 
350 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 ELIZABETH AKEES ALLEN. 
 TEE SFABEOW AT SEA* 
 
 Agaijtst the baffling winds, with slow advance, 
 
 One drear December day. 
 Up the vex'd Channel, toM^'i-d the coast of France, 
 
 Our vessel urged her way. 
 
 Around the dim horizon's misty slopes 
 
 The storm its banners hung ; 
 And, pulling bravely at the heavy ropes. 
 
 The di-ipping sailors sung. 
 
 A little land-bird, from its home-nest warm, 
 
 Bewilder'd, driven, and lost. 
 With wearied wings, came drifting on the stiorm, 
 
 From the far English coast. / 
 
 Blown blindly onward with a headlong speed 
 
 It could not guide or checlr, 
 Seeking some shelter in its utter need. 
 
 It dropp'd upon the deck. 
 
 Forgetting all its dread of human foes, 
 
 Desiring only rest. 
 It folded its -sveak wings, and nestled close 
 
 And gladly to my breast. 
 
 Wherefore — ^I said — ^this little flickering life, 
 
 Which now all panting lies. 
 Shall yet forget its peril and its strife, 
 
 And soar in sunny skies. 
 
 To-morrow, gaining England's shore again. 
 
 Its wings shall find their rest ; 
 And soon, among the leaves of some green lane, 
 
 Brood o'er a summer nest. 
 
 * See Note 28. 
 
EOSE TERRY COOKE. 351 
 
 And when amid my future wanderings, 
 
 My far and devious guest, 
 I hear a -warlaling bird, whose carol rings 
 
 More sweetly than the rest, — 
 
 Then I shall say, with heart awake and warm. 
 
 And sudden sympathy, 
 " It is the bird I sheltei'd in the storm, 
 
 " The life I saved at sea ! " 
 
 But when the morning fell across the ship, 
 
 And storm and cloud "^vere fled, 
 Tha golden beak no longer sought my lip, — 
 
 The wearied bird was dead. 
 
 The bitter cold, the driving wind and rain, — 
 
 \ Were borne too many hours ; 
 MV pity came too late and all in vain,-^ 
 sunshine on frozen flowers. 
 
 Thus many a heart which dwells in grief and tears. 
 
 Braving and suffering much. 
 Bears patiently the wrong and pain of years, 
 
 But breaks at love's first touch. 
 
 EOSE TEEEY COOKE. 
 
 Bom at Hartford, Conn : 
 
 SEMMLE. 
 
 Spib.it of light divine ! 
 
 Quick breath of power 
 Breathe on these lips of mine, 
 Persuade the bud to flower ; 
 Cleave thy dull swathe of cloud ! no longer waits the hour. 
 
 Exulting, rapturous flame ! 
 
 Dispel' the night. 
 I dare not breathe thy nam^e, 
 
 I tremble at thy light, 
 Tet come, in fatal strength, — come in all-matchless might ? 
 
352 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Burn, as the leaping fire, 
 
 A martyr's sliroud ; 
 Burn, like an Indian pyre, 
 With music fierce and loud ; 
 Come, Power ! Love calls thee, — come, with all the god 
 endow'd ! 
 
 Immortal life in death ! 
 
 On these rapt eyes, 
 On this quick-failing breath. 
 
 In dread and glory rise ! 
 The altar waits this torch, — come, touch the sacrifice ! 
 
 Come ! not with gifts of life, 
 
 Not for my good ; 
 My soul hath kept her strife 
 
 In fear and solitude : , 
 
 More blest the inverted torch, the horror-curdled ^lood. 
 
 Better in light to die 
 
 Than silent live : 
 Eend from these lips one cry, 
 
 One death-bom utterance give ! 
 Then, clay ! in fire depart; then, soul! in heaven survive! 
 
 " CHE SAMA SABA." 
 
 She walk'd in the garden 
 
 And a rose hung on a tree, 
 Eed as heart's blood, 
 
 Fair to see. 
 " Ah,kind south wind ! 
 
 " Bend it to me ! " 
 But the wind laugh'd softly, 
 
 And blew to the sea. 
 
ROSE TEREY COOKE. 353 
 
 High on the tranches, 
 
 Far above her head, 
 Like a king's cup 
 
 Round, and red. 
 " I am comely " — 
 
 The maiden said : 
 ■" I have gold like shore-sand, 
 
 " I wish I were dead. 
 
 " Blushes and rubies 
 
 " Are not like a rose, — 
 " Through its deep heart 
 
 " Love-life flows. 
 " Ah ! what sjjlendours 
 
 " Can give me repose ? 
 " What is all the world worth ? 
 
 " I can not reach my rose." 
 
 AFTER THE C0MANCHE8. 
 
 Saddle! saddle! saddle! 
 
 Mount and gallop away ! 
 Over the dim green praiiie 
 
 Straight on the track of day : 
 Spare not spur for mercy ! 
 
 Hurry with shout and thong ! 
 Pieiy and tqugh is the mustang, 
 
 The prairie is wide and long. 
 
 Saddle ! saddle ! saddle ! 
 
 Leap from the broken door 
 Where the brute Comanche enter'd 
 
 And the white-foot treads no more ! 
 The hut is bumM to ashes. 
 
 There are dead men stark outside, 
 But only a long dark ringlet 
 , Left of the stolen bjidip, .. 
 
 2 a 
 
POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 Go, like tlio east wind's howling ! 
 
 Kido witli death behind ! 
 Stajr not for food or slumber 
 
 Till the thieving wolves ye find ! 
 They came before the wedding. 
 
 Swifter than prayer or priest; 
 The bridemen danced to bullets. 
 
 The wild dogs ate the feast. 
 
 Look to rifle and powder ! 
 
 Fasten the knile-belt sure! 
 Loose the coil of the lasso, — 
 
 Make the loop secure ! 
 Fold the flask in the poncho ! 
 
 Fill the pouch with maize ! 
 And ride as if to-morrow , 
 
 Were the last of living days ! / 
 
 Saddle ! saddle ! saddle ! / 
 
 Eedden spur and thong ! 
 Eide like the mad tornado ! 
 
 The track is lonely and long. 
 Spare not horse nor rider ! 
 
 Fly for tlie stolen bride! 
 Bring hei' home on the crupper, 
 
 A scalp on either side ! 
 
 NOEA PEEET. 
 IN JUNK 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing. 
 
 So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; 
 So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-going 
 
 From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee ! 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes. 
 The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere ; 
 
 So sweet the water's song through reeds and rushes. 
 The plover's piping notie, now here, now there ! 
 
NORA PERRY. oOO 
 
 So sweet, so sweet, from off the fields of clover. 
 The west winds blowing, blowing up the hill ; 
 
 So sweet, so sweet, with news of some one's lover. 
 Fleet footstejis ringing nearer, nearer still ! 
 
 So near, so near, — now listen, listen, thrushes ! 
 
 Now plover ! blackbiid ! cease and let me hear ; 
 jVnd water ! hush j'our song through reeds and rushes. 
 
 That I may know whose lover cometh near. 
 
 So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling, 
 
 Plover or blackbird never heeding me; 
 So loud the raillstream too kept fretting, falling. 
 
 O'er bar and bank, in brawling, boisterous glee. 
 
 So loud, so loud ; j'et Mackbird, thrush, nor plover, 
 
 Nor nois}- millstream in its fret and fall. 
 Could Atown the voice, the low voice of my lover, 
 
 My lt(ver calling through the thrushes' call. 
 
 "Come down! come down!" — he call'd, and straight the 
 thrushes 
 
 From mate to mate sang all at once — " Come down ! " 
 And while the water laugh'd through reed and rushes. 
 
 The blackbird chirp'd, the plover piped — " Come down ! " 
 
 Then down and off and tkrougli the fields of clover 
 
 I folio w'll, folio w'd at my lover's call, — 
 Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover. 
 
 The water's laugh, the mill-etream's fret and fall. 
 
 OVT OF THE WINDOW. 
 
 Out of the window she lean'd and laugh'd, 
 A girl's laugh, idle and foolish and sweet — 
 
 Foolish and idle, it dropp'd like a call, 
 Into the crowded, noisy street. 
 
 Up he glanced at the glancing face, 
 
 Who had caught the laugh as it flutter'd and fell. 
 
;]")G POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 And eye to eye for a moment, there 
 They held each other as if by a spell. 
 
 All in a moment passing there — 
 
 And into her idle, empty day, 
 All in that moment sometliing now 
 
 Suddenly seem'd to find its way. 
 
 And through and through the clamorous hours 
 That made his clamorous busy day, 
 
 A girl's laugh, idle and foolish and sweet, 
 Into every bargain found its way. 
 
 And through and through the crowd of the slrc.'ots, 
 
 At every window in yiassiiig by. 
 He look'd a moment, and seem'd to see 
 
 A pair of eyes like the morning sky. 
 
 , / 
 
 EOBEET KELLY WEEKS. 
 
 Bom 1S40— 
 
 AD FINEM. 
 
 I WOULD not have believed it then. 
 If any one had told me so — 
 
 Ere you shall see his face again 
 A year and more shall go. 
 
 And let them come again to-day 
 
 To pity me and prophesy. 
 And I will face them all, and say 
 
 To all of them— You lie ! 
 
 Ealse prophets all ! you lie, you lie ! 
 
 I will believe no word but his ; 
 Will say December is July, 
 
 That Autumn April is, 
 
 Eather than say he has forgot. 
 
 Or will not come who bade me wait, 
 
ROBERT KELLY WEEKS. oo7 
 
 Who wait him and accuse him uot 
 Of being very late. 
 
 lie said that ho would come in Spring, 
 
 And I believed — believe him now, 
 Though all the birds have ceased to sing 
 
 And bare is every bough ; 
 
 For Spring is not till he appear. 
 
 Winter is not when he is nigh — 
 The only Lord of all my j'ear, 
 
 For whom I live — and die ! 
 
 A JPAUSE. 
 
 VTo have the imploring hands of her 
 Clasp'd on his shoulder, and his cheek 
 Brush'd over blowly by the stir 
 
 Of thrilling hair, and not to speak ; 
 
 To see within the unlifted eyes 
 More than the fallen fringes jarove 
 
 Enough to hide, to see the rise 
 
 Of tear-drops in them, and not move ; 
 
 Wonld this be strange ? And yet at last, 
 What weary man may not do this, 
 
 Seeing when the long pursuit is past, 
 To only cease how sweet it is ? 
 
 To only cease and be as one 
 
 Who, when the fever leaves him, lies 
 Careless of what is come or gone, 
 
 Which yet he cannot realize ; 
 
 For all his little thought is spent 
 
 In wondering wliat it w^as that gave 
 
 To be so quiet and content, 
 
 While yet he is not in the grave. 
 
;J5S I'OETKY OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILL CAELETON. 
 
 Boru at Hudson, Michigan, 1S45 — 
 BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 
 
 DuAW lip the papers, lawyer ! and make 'em good and stout. 
 For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are 
 
 out, — 
 We who have work'd together so long as man and wife 
 Jlust pull in single harness the rest of our nat'ral life. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " says you. I swan ! it's hard to tell ? 
 Most of the years hehind us we've pass'd hy very well ; 
 I have no other woman — she has no other man ; 
 Only we've lived together as long as ever we can. 
 
 So I have talk'd with Betsy, and Betsy has talk'd with me ; 
 And we've agreed together that we can never agree ; 
 Not (hat we've catch'd each other in any terrible cr/me ; 
 ^Ve've been a gatherin' this for years, a little at a ;^me. 
 
 There was a stock of temper we both had, for a start ; 
 Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take us two apart; 
 I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone. 
 And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own. 
 
 The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed. 
 
 Was somethin' concerning heaven — a diiFerence in our creed ; 
 
 We arg'ed the thing at breakfast — we arg'ed the thing at 
 
 tea — 
 And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we couldn't 
 
 agree. 
 
 And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow ; 
 She had kick'd the bucket, for certain — the question was 
 
 only — How ? 
 I held my opinion, and Betsy another had ; 
 And when we were done a talkin', we both of us was mad. 
 
 And the next that T remember, it started in a joke ; 
 But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke. 
 And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl ; 
 And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul. 
 
WILL CAELETON. 3-50 
 
 And so the thing kept woikin', and all the self-same way ; 
 Always some thin' to ar'ge and something sharp to say, — 
 And down on ns came the neighbours, a couple o' dozen 
 
 strong. 
 And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along. 
 
 And there have been days together — and many a weary 
 
 week — 
 When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too 
 
 proud to speak ; 
 And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the 
 
 summer and fall, . 
 If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't at all. 
 
 And so I've talk'd with Betsy, and Betsy has talk'd ■ 
 
 with me ; 
 And we have agreed together that we can never agree ; 
 And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be 
 
 mina; 
 And I'll put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign. 
 
 Write on the paper, lawyer ! — the very first paragraph — 
 Of all the farm and live stoi:k. she shall have her half ; 
 For she has help'd to earn it, through many a weary day. 
 And it's noihin' more than justice that Betsy has her pay. 
 
 Give her the house and homestead : a man can thrive and 
 
 roam, 
 But women are wretched critters unless they have a home. 
 And I have always determined, and never fail'd to say. 
 That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away. 
 
 There's a little hard money besides, that's drawin' tol'rable 
 
 pay, 
 A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day, — 
 Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at ; 
 Put in another clause there, and give her all of that. 
 
 I see that you are smiling, sir ! at my givin' her so much ; 
 Yes, divorce is cheap, sir ! but I take no stock in such ; 
 True and fair I married her, when she was blithe and young. 
 And Betsy was always good to me, exceptin' with her 
 tongue. 
 
360 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 When I was youno; as 3'ou, sir ! and not so smart, perhaps, 
 For me she mitten'd a lawyer, and several other chaps ; 
 And all of 'em was fluster'd, and fairly taken down. 
 And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town. 
 
 Once, when I had a fever — I won't forget it soon — 
 I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon — 
 Never an hour went by me when she was out of si<i;ht ; 
 She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and 
 night. 
 
 And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean. 
 Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen, 
 And I don't complain of Betsy or any of her acts, 
 Exceptin' when we've quarrel'd, and told each other facts. 
 
 So draw ujj the paper, lawyer ! and I'll go home to-uight, 
 And read the agreement to her and see if it's all right; 
 And then in the mornin' I'll sell to a fradin' man I/know — 
 And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world 
 I'H go. 
 
 And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't 
 
 occur ; 
 That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her. 
 And lay me under the maple we planted years ago, 
 When she and I was happy, before we quarrel'd so. 
 
 And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me ; 
 And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll then agree ; 
 And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it queer 
 If we loved each other the better because we've quarrel'd 
 here. 
 
 HOW BETST AND I MADE UP. 
 
 Give us your hand, Mr. Lawyer ! how do you do to-day ? 
 You drew up that paper — I s'pose you want your paj-. 
 Don't cut down your figures ; make it an X or a V ; 
 For that 'ere written agreement was just the makin' of me. 
 
 Goin' home that evcnin' I tell you I was blue, 
 
 Thiukin' of all my troubles, and what I was goin' to do ; 
 
WILL CAELETON. 361 
 
 And if my liosses liadn't been the steadiest team alive. 
 They'd 've tipp'd me over, certain, for I couldn't see where 
 to drive. 
 
 No — for I was labourin' under a heavy load ; 
 Mo — fur I was travelin' an entirely different road ; 
 Foi- I was a-traciu' over the path of our lives ag'in, 
 ^\nd seein' where we miss'd the way, and where we might 
 have been. 
 
 And many a corner we'd turn'd that just to a quarrel led, 
 ^Vhen I ought to 've held my temper, and driven straight 
 
 ahead ; 
 And the more I thought it over the more these memories 
 
 came. 
 And the more I struck the opinion that I was the most to 
 
 blame. ' 
 
 And things I had long forgotten kept risin' in my mind, 
 Cf little matters betwixt us, where Betsy was good and 
 
 kind; 
 And these things they flash'd all through me, as you know 
 
 things sometimes will. 
 When a feller's alone in the darkness, and every thing is 
 
 still. 
 
 " But " — says I — " we're too far along to take another 
 
 track. 
 And when I put my hand to the plow I do not oft turn 
 
 back ; 
 And 'tain't an uncommon thing now for couples to smash 
 
 in two ; " 
 And so I set my teeth together, and vow'd I'd see it 
 
 through. 
 
 When I came in sight o' the house 'twas some'at in the 
 
 night. 
 And just as I tum'd a hill-top I see the kitchen light; 
 Which often a han'some pictur' to a hungrj' person makes. 
 But it don't interest a feller much that's goin' to pull up 
 
 stakes. 
 
362 POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 And when I went, in the house the table was sot for me — 
 As good a supper '« 1 ever saw, or ever want to see ; 
 And I cramm'd the agreement down in ni}' pocket as well 
 
 as I could. 
 And tell to eatin' mj- victuals, which somehow didn't tasto 
 
 good. 
 
 And Betsj' she pretended to look ahout the house. 
 
 But she watch'd mj side coat-pocket like a cat would 
 
 watch a mouse ; 
 And then she went to foolin' a little with her cup. 
 And intently readin' a newspaper, a-holdin' it wrong side 
 
 up. 
 
 And when I'd done my supper I draw'd the agreement 
 
 out. 
 An' give it to her without a word, for she know'd what 
 
 'twas ahout, ^ 
 
 And then I hnmm'd a little tnne, hut now and then a note 
 Was hu'sted by some animal that hopp'd up in my throat. 
 
 Then Betsy she got her specks from off the mantel-shelf. 
 And read the article over quite sofily to herself; 
 Head it by little and little, for her eyes is gettin' old. 
 And lawyers' writin' ain't no print, especially when it's 
 cold. 
 
 And after she'd read a little she give my arm a touch. 
 And kindly said she was afraid I was 'lowin' her too much ; 
 But when she was through she went for me, her face a- 
 
 streamin' with tears, 
 And kiss'd me for the first time in over twenty years. 
 
 I don't know what you'll think, Sir ! — ^I didn't come to 
 
 inquire — 
 But I pick'd up that agreement and stuflfd it in the fire ; 
 And I told her we'd biiry the hatchet alongside of the 
 
 cow ; 
 And we struck an agreement never to have another row. 
 
WILL CAELETON. oOo 
 
 And I told her in the future I wouldn't speak cross or rash 
 If half the crockery in the house was bioken all to smash ; 
 And she said in regard to heaven, we'd try and learn its 
 
 worth 
 By startin' a branch establishment and rnnniu' it liere on 
 
 earth. 
 
 And so we sat a-talkin' three-quarters of the night ; 
 
 Aud open'd our hearts to each other until they both grew 
 
 light; 
 And the days when I was winnin' her away from so many 
 
 men 
 Was nothin' to that evenin' I courted her over again. 
 
 Next momin' an ancient virgin took pains to call on us, 
 Her lamp all trimm'd and a-burnin' to kindle another fuss ; 
 But when she went to pryin' and openin' of old sores, 
 My Bets\y rose politely, and show'd her out-of-doors. 
 
 Since then I don't deny but there's been a word or two ; 
 But we've got our eyes vs^ide open, and know just what to 
 
 do ; 
 When one speaks cross the other just meets it with a 
 
 laugh. 
 And the first one's ready to give up considerable more than 
 
 half. 
 
 Maybe you'll think me soft, Sir ! a-talking in this style. 
 But somehow it does me lots of good to tell it ouce in a 
 
 while ; 
 And I do it for a compliment — 'tis so that 3-ou can see 
 That that there written agreement of yours was just the 
 
 makin' of me. 
 
 So make out your bill, Mr. 'Ls.-wjei ! don't stop short of 
 
 an X; 
 Make it more if you want to, for I have got the checks ; 
 I'm richer than a National Bank, with all. its treasures 
 
 told, 
 Por I've got a wife at home now that's worth her weight 
 
 in gold. 
 
i(')4< POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 F. F. VICTOE. 
 
 NEVADA. 
 
 Sphinx ! down whose nigged face 
 Tlie sliding centuries their furrows cleave 
 Bj' sun and frost and cloud-burst, scarce to leave 
 
 Perceptible a trace 
 
 Of age or sorrow. 
 Faint hints of yesterdays with no to-morrow, — 
 My mind regards thee with a questioning eye. 
 
 To know thj' secret high. 
 
 If Theban mj'sterj'. 
 With head of woman, soaring bird-like wings, 
 And serpent's tail on lion's trnnk, were things / 
 
 Puzzling in history ; / 
 
 And men invented f 
 
 For it an origin which represented 
 Chimera and a monster double-headed. 
 
 By myths Phenician wedded, — 
 
 Their issue being this — 
 This most chimerical and ^vondrous thing 
 From whose dumb mouth not even the gods could wring 
 
 Truth, nor antithesis, — 
 
 Then, what I think is. 
 This creature — being chief among men's sphinxes — 
 Is eloquent, and overflows with story, 
 
 Beside thy silence hoarj' ! 
 
 Kevada ! desert, waste. 
 Mighty, and inhospitable, and stern. 
 Hiding a meaning over -which we yearn 
 
 In eager panting haste, — 
 
 Grasping and losing. 
 Still being deluded ever by our choosing, — 
 Answer us, Sphinx ! what is thy meaning double 
 
 But endless toil and trouble ? 
 
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. oG^f 
 
 Insorutal'le ! men strive 
 To rend thy secret from thy rocky breast, — 
 Breaking their hearts, and periling heaven's rest 
 
 For hopes that can not thrive ; 
 
 Whilst unrelenting. 
 Upon thy mountain throne, and unrepenting, 
 Thou sittest, basking in a fervid sun, 
 
 Seeing or hearing none. 
 
 I sit benealh thy stars — 
 The shallop moon beach'd on a bank of clouds — 
 ; And see thy mountains wrapp'd in shadowy shrouds, 
 Glad that the darkness bars 
 The day's suggestion — 
 T^he endless repetition of one question ; 
 Grjad that thy stony face I can not see, 
 \ Nevada — Mystery ! 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 EDWAED EOWLAND SILL. 
 
 Born 1843— 
 SLEEPING. 
 
 Hush'd within her quiet bed 
 She is lying, all the night. 
 In her pallid robe of white, 
 Eyelids on the pure eyes press'd. 
 Soft hands folded on the breast, — 
 
 And, you thought I meant it — dead ? 
 
 Nay ! T smile at your shock'd face : 
 In the mnming she will wake. 
 Turn her dreams to sport, and make 
 All the h( (usehold glad and gay 
 Yet for many a merry day, 
 
 With her beauty and her grace. 
 
 But some summer 'twill be said — 
 " She is lying, all the night. 
 In her pallid robe of white, 
 
:KG poetry of AMERICA. 
 
 Eyelids on the tired eyes press'd, 
 H;inds that cross upon the breast, "- 
 We shall understand it— dead ! 
 
 Yet 'twill only be a sleep : 
 
 When, with songs and dewj' light. 
 Morning blossoms out of Is'ight,, 
 She -^-ill open her blue ej'es 
 'Neath the palms of Paradise, 
 
 While we foolish ones shall weep. 
 
 A POETS APOLOGY. 
 
 Truth cut on high in tablets of hewn stone, / 
 Or on great columns gorgeously adom'd, ( 
 
 Perchance were left alone, 
 Pass'd by and scom'd ; 
 
 But Truth enchased upon a jewel rare, 
 
 A man would keep, and next his bosom wear. 
 
 So, many an hour, I sit and carve my gems, — 
 Ten spoil' d, for one in purer beauty set : 
 
 Not for king's diadems, — ■ 
 Some amulet 
 
 That may be worn o'er hearts that toil and plod, — 
 
 Though but one pearl that bears the name of God. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 \ 1. HoPKiNSON — page 3. 
 
 Brake says he was bofn in 1778 : a manifest misprint. Drake 
 (^A^rifirican Biogra;phy) is my usual authority ; hut I have had to 
 correct him hy AUihone (Dictionary/ of Authors) and Griswold, and 
 each ay other or by personal inquiry. 
 
 ( 2. Adams and Liberty — p. 5. 
 
 By this poem, written soon after 1797, Paine is said to have made 
 §750, nearly ten dollars a line. The stanza on Washington was 
 added by particular request. 
 
 3, The Stae-spakglbd Banker — ^p. 7. 
 During the war of 1812 with England Mr Key, then residing in 
 Baltimore, having had occasion to go on board of one of the vessels 
 of the British fleet, was detained to witness the attack on Fort 
 McHenry ; and, says Griswold, wrote this Song in honour of the 
 flag which floated over the fort during the whole of the futile 
 bombardment. 
 
 4. Ambeica to Geeat Britain — p. 8. 
 
 First printed with Coleridge's SyhilUne Leaves in England, in 
 1810. A volume of Allston's Poems appeared in 1813. Though 
 bom in South Carolina, Allston was educated at Harvard ; and his 
 life was spent, in his studies and practice as a painter, either at 
 the North or in Europe. 
 
 Cranch (also a painter) was born at Alexandria, on the border 
 line of Virginia and the District of Columbia. Neither in his 
 nor Allston's life or writings is there anything to mark them 
 as Southerners. The same may be said of others. Maxwell was 
 
368 NOTES. 
 
 educated at Yale. The only distinctively Southern ixiets are 
 Timrod and Randall ; and their distinction is but iiolitical. Indeed 
 the absence of even a Southern flavour is very remarkable. 
 
 5. Paulding — p. 10. 
 Allibone says, born in 1778 ; but Drake and Griswold say '79. 
 
 6. Dana — p. 16. 
 His Poems were first published collectively in 1827. I a.m 
 informed that he was certainly alive in 1872, and I believe that he 
 is living at the time of this present writing. A Richard Heury 
 Dana junior was apparent quite recently. In all cases where I 
 have not given date of death I believe the persons to be living, 
 though of course I cannot be sure. The latest edition of Drake's 
 Biugraphy, generally trustworthy, is dated 1874 ; but internal 
 evidence fiies its last revision at 1871. / 
 
 7. The Crossed Swords — p. 22. / 
 
 One belonged to the royalist Captain " Linzee " (or Liniiay ?) of 
 the Falcon sloop of war, that took part in the Bunker Hill fight, 
 June 17, 1775 ; the other to the American Colonel Prescott. 
 Thackeray begins his novel of The Virginians with a reference to 
 these — " On the library wall of one of the most famous writers of 
 America" (William Hickling Prescott to wit) "there hang two 
 swords," etc. The swords are now preserved by the Massachusetts 
 Historical Society at Boston — " in memory of associations with 
 which they will be inseparahly connected." 
 
 8. Bryant — ^p. 25. 
 Allibone says incorrectly — " born in 1797." Placing the Poets 
 in chronological order of course prevents the same order for poems : 
 Bryant's later poems, for instance, taking their position under his 
 name many years anterior to some much earlier works of other 
 writers immediately following. So in the compass of a few pages 
 appear his Tlianatopsis, published in 1821; To a Water/owl, the 
 Hymn to the North Star, the De'iih of the Flowers (then called the 
 Close of Autamri) printed before 1829 ; and two of his latest poems, 
 Tlie Third of Js'ovemher 1861 and Waiting hy the Gate. It was 
 impossible to find out the date of every poem: the arrangement 
 according to birth of writers was 'therefore the nearest approacli 
 
NOTES. 369 
 
 to order that could be had, though I have endeavoured in quoting 
 from the greater writers to give specimens of both earlier and later 
 periods, and as nearly as I could according to time of production. 
 The critical reader should bear these remarks in mind when esti- 
 mating the various merits of the poems. 
 
 9. The Fringed Gentian — p. 30. 
 This — the blue fringed gentian — Gr. crinita (Frcslich) is the 
 Poet's favourite flower. 
 
 10. Halleck — ^p. 37. 
 Drake says, born in 1790. Griswold and AJlibone agree in 1795, 
 with particulars which seem to vouch for their correctness. I have 
 had to steer as I best could through several similar discrepancies. 
 
 11. John Howard Bryant — p. 82. 
 The brother of William Cvdlen Bryant. 
 
 \ 12. Whittier— p. 86. 
 
 Drake has his birthday Dec : 17, 1807 ; Allibone says 1808. 
 Whittier writes to me — "My birthday was the very last of the 
 year 1807." Dec: 31. 
 
 13. Skipper Irbson's Eide — ^p. 87. 
 
 " Wild-eyed, free-limb'd, such as chase 
 Bacchus roimd some antique vase." 
 
 The New England pronunciation makes vase agree with chace. 
 
 14. Burial of Baeboue — ^p. 94. 
 
 Barbour was one of the first slain of those brave men who 
 endeavoured by settling in the new territories to shut out slavery, 
 restricting it at all costs vrtthin the original State limits. John 
 Brown's first work was in the same cause. 
 
 15. Telling the Bees— p. lOO. 
 
 An old English superstition preserved in New England. Else, 
 it was thought, the bees would desert their hives and remove to 
 another boihestead. . . ^ . 
 
 The'dhore-girl is thie girl who does odd jobs— " chores " — about 
 the' hoissfei' chore-vvoman, I suppose, the same as our charwoman. 
 
 2 B 
 
370 NOTES. 
 
 IG. Pike— p. 115. 
 Mr. Eossetti prints a report from " an American friend " of the 
 death of Pike while a General in the Confederate army. Allibone 
 says — The death of Col. Albert James Pickett (an author also) in 
 Dec: 1858, led to a report of the demise of Col. Albert Pike. 
 Dictionary of Authors, 1870. Colonel Pike is still alive. 
 
 17. PoE— p. 119. 
 Poe, according to Allibone (and other biographers), was bom in 
 1811 : assuming which date, he was placed at school in London at 
 the age of five years ; and when aged eleven years entered the 
 University of Virginia, whence he was expelled at the end of his 
 third term after being "equally distinguished as a scholar, an 
 athlete, and a debauchee." Rather young for a debauchee ! Gris- 
 wold, accepting these improbable dates, yet himself contradicts 
 them, placing Poe at school in Richmond (Virginia) when six or 
 seven years old, at which age (if born in 1811) he was cerfeinly in 
 England. Mi. Stoddard writes — "Poe was really bom an 1809. 
 The place of his birth is uncertain. It was not Baltimore, however, 
 but some city or town in which his mother was playing a theatrical 
 engagement (could it have been New York?)." Harper's New 
 Monthly Magazine, September, 1872. Poe was sixteen when he 
 entered the University in 1825. 
 
 18. Sakgest — ^p. 145. 
 Allibone says, born in 1814. 
 
 19. Chanketg — p. 159. 
 William EUery Channing the poet is a nephew of Dr. Channing 
 the great Unitarian preacher. 
 
 20. The Old Abbeys— p. 162. 
 The poet — ^an episcopal .clergyman — refers here to the desecration 
 of the Abbeys (rather the Cathedrals) during the Commonwealth 
 and their hoped-for restoration under Charles the Second. 
 
 21. The Moknisg-Gloet — ^p. 183. 
 This is the NeW England name for the Major Convolvolus. The 
 author was the wife of James Russell Lowell. I have deviated' 
 slightly irom order of birth to place more fittingly together the 
 
NOTES. 371 
 
 names of Mr. and Mrs. Lowell, Mr. and Mrs. Stoddard, and tlie 
 sisters Alice and Phoebe Gary. Eobert Trail Speuce Lowell is 
 J. R. Lowell's brother. 
 
 22. DiKGE— p. 190. 
 
 Written on the death of Mrs. Mary Booth, the first wife of Edwin 
 Booth the actor. 
 
 23. Whitman— p. 199. 
 
 I may here ask pardon of some of my authors if in endeaTouring 
 at one uniform system of punctuation I offend their peculiarities. 
 I have cared to keep what seemed the author's owm, especially with 
 Whitman whose manner is altogether his ; but when the points 
 and accents were apparently only printers' errors or redundancies 
 I have altered them to smt an order which has at least the merit of 
 intelligibility. I have kept, for uniformity's sake also, to English 
 spelling, which does not always agree with more modem American. 
 
 Whitman's Dresser, beyond its value as poetry, was worth giving 
 as a record of his own noble life. 
 
 24. Battle Hymx of the Rbpublic — p. 216. 
 This grand martial lyric, the best during the war, is set to the 
 truly national air of " John Brown," — the genuine words of which 
 (who the author or how originating not appearing to be known) I 
 give as I had them, some eight years ago, from one of the old hero's 
 party — 
 
 John Brown's knapsack was strapp'd upon his back, 
 
 John Brown's knapsack was strapp'd upon his back, 
 
 John Brown's knapsack was strapp'd upon his back, 
 
 As he went marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 Glory ! glory ! glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 Glory ! glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 As he went marching on. 
 
 John Brown's body was hang'd upon a tree ; (thrice) 
 His soul went marching on. 
 Glory! etc. 
 
 His soul went marching on. 
 
 John Brown's body is mouldering in the grave ; (tlrice) 
 . . . . His soul is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! etc. . 
 
 His soul is marching on. 
 
372 NOTES. 
 
 He's gone to be a soldier in tLe Army of the Lord ; (Ihrice) 
 His soul is marching on. 
 Glory ! etc. 
 
 His soul is marcliing on. 
 
 The stars of heaven are looking kindly down (thrice) 
 On the grave of old John Brown. 
 Glory! etc. 
 
 On the grave of old John Brown.' 
 
 25. Helen Fiske Jackson — p. 294. 
 Mrs. Jackson's Poems are publishe'd under the initials H. H., she 
 being at the time of publication Mrs. Hunt. 
 
 26. Kit Carson's Ride— p. 340. 
 It is proper to note here that Mrs. Fremont, the wife of General 
 Fremont, indignantly denies not only this story told by Miller, 
 but even its verisimilitude. She speaks, on the contrary, of Kit 
 Carson (and from the knowledge of long personal friendship) as a 
 very noble backwoodsman and pioneer, not lawless, butijf good 
 repute, and utterly incapable of the despicable cowardice attributed 
 to him by the poet. Mr. Hossetti is my authority for Miller's age. 
 
 27. Maryland — p. 345. 
 This is the only poem I find worth quoting out of a volume of 
 Southern War Ehymes, mostly by anonymous writers. Of Randall 
 I can obtain no data. The " new key to thy song " is a punning 
 allusion to Key's Star-spangled Banner, written at Baltimore. 
 " Sic Semper " is the motto of the State of Maryland. 
 
 28. The Sparrow at Sea — ^p. 350. 
 
 "A warbling bird whose carol rings" — America has a song- 
 sparrow — fringilla melodia — ^which may have led our author into a 
 mistake as to the powers of the English bird. 
 
 Here, and in other cases where I have not given date or place of 
 birth it is because even direct inquiry by letter has failed to bring 
 me the desired information. I therefore have placed the authors 
 at or near the end of my list, not meaning that they are of the 
 youngest. The name of Rose Terry (now Mrs. Eollin- Cooke) I find 
 in Dana's Household Book of Poetry (the best collection I know 
 of English and American), edition 1862. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHOES. 
 
 Albeich— Thomas Bailey ■■• . . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 313 
 
 AiLEN— Mrs. Elizabeth Akers 
 
 350 
 
 Allstow — Washington 
 AENOLiv^Greorge 
 
 8 
 
 297 
 
 BoKEH — George H. ... ... •■• , , 
 
 232 
 
 Bbainaed — John Gardner Calkins ... 
 
 43 
 
 Beooks— Mrs. Maria (Gowen) ..... 
 
 ... 42 
 
 Beg WUELL— Henry Howard 
 
 219 
 
 Beyant — William Cullen , ...... .-■ , 
 
 ... 25 
 
 Betakt — John Howard ... 
 
 82 
 
 Caeleton — Will ... ... ... 
 
 358 
 
 Caey — Alice ... ... ••-... 
 
 223 
 
 CAEY^-PhcEbe 
 
 '... ... 225 
 
 Cha-nntng — ^William Ellery 
 
 159 
 
 CoE — Pichard 
 
 ... 227 
 
 Cooke — John Esten ...... 
 
 .280 
 
 CooKB — Mrs. Eose (Terry) ...... 
 
 351 
 
 CoxE — Ecy; Arthur Cleveland. 
 
 162 
 
 Oeamch— Christopher Pearse ..... 
 
 139 
 
 Ctjetis — George William ... 
 
 244 
 
 Dana— Richard Henry ... .... 
 
 16 
 
 DoEGAN — John Aylmere ... 
 
 312 
 
 DoEE — Mrs. Jnlia C. B. 
 
 265 
 
574 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Drake — Joseph Rodman ... 
 
 PACK 
 
 23 
 
 DuQANSE — Augustine Joseph Hickey ... 
 
 239 
 
 Eastman — Charles Gamage 
 
 147 
 
 Emeeson — Ralph "Waldo 
 
 48 
 
 Fexsek — Cornelius Gteorge 
 
 228 
 
 Fkeneau — Philip 
 
 1 
 
 Frothingham — Rev : Kathaniel Laugdon 
 
 22 
 
 Fuller — Sarah Margaret^ — (Countess Ossoli) 
 
 ... 129 
 
 Gallagher — WiUiam D. 
 
 105 
 
 Greene — Albert Gorton 
 
 47 
 
 Halleck — James Fitz-Grecne 
 
 37 
 
 Harte — ^Francis Bret 
 
 331 
 
 Hat — John 
 
 336 
 
 Hatne— PaulH 
 
 281 
 
 Hill — ^Thomas ... 
 
 163 
 
 Hoffman — Charles Fenno 
 
 .j.. 59 
 
 Holmes — Oh ver Wendell ... 
 
 ... ' 107 
 
 Hooper — Lucy 
 
 143 
 
 HoPKiKSON — Joseph 
 
 3 
 
 Howells — ^William Dean 
 
 330 
 
 Howe — Mrs. Juha (Ward) 
 
 216 
 
 Hott — Rev: Ralph ... 
 
 130 
 
 Jackson — ^lilrs. Helen (Fiske) 
 
 294 
 
 Key — Francis Scott ... 
 
 7 
 
 Larcom — ^Lucy ... 
 
 268 
 
 Leland — Charles Godfrey 
 
 ... 240 
 
 Longfellow — ^Hemy Wads worth ... 
 
 67 
 
 Lowell — James Russell 
 
 ... 165 
 
 Lowell — Mrs. Maria (White) 
 
 183 
 
 LowELl, — Robert Trail Spence ... 
 
 154 
 
 Maxwell— William 
 
 11 
 
 McMaster — Guy Humphrey ... 
 
 '276 
 
 Melvellb — Herman 
 
 217 
 
 Messinger — Robert Hinckley ... 
 
 80 
 
 Miller — CLncinnatus Hiner (" Joac^uin ") ... 
 
 340 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 375 
 
 Osgood — Kate Putnam 
 
 FACE 
 
 ... 347 
 
 Paine — ^Eobert Treat 
 
 5 
 
 Parsons — Thomas William ... 
 
 ... 186 
 
 Paulding — James Kirke ... 
 
 10 
 
 Percival — James Gates 
 
 ... 40 
 
 Peret — ^Nora ... 
 
 354 
 
 Piatt — Jolm James ... 
 
 ... 301 
 
 Pierpont — Eev:Joliu 
 
 11 
 
 Pike — ^Albert 
 
 ... 115 
 
 PiNKNET — Edward Coate ... 
 
 46 
 
 Poe — Edgar Allan ... 
 
 ... 119 
 
 Eandall — James R. 
 
 345 
 
 Eead — Thomas Buchanan 
 
 ... 229 
 
 Sargent— Epes ... 
 
 145 
 
 Saxe — John Godfrey 
 
 ... 150 
 
 SiGOUENBT — Mrs. Lydia Howard (Huntley) ... 
 
 20 
 
 Sill — ^Edward Eowland 
 
 ... 365 
 
 SiMMS — ^William Gilmore 
 
 61 
 
 Spoffoed — ^Mrs. Harriet (Prescott) 
 
 ... 307 
 
 Speague — Charles 
 
 21 
 
 Stedjian — ^Edmund Clarence ... 
 
 ... 283 
 
 Stood AED — ^Mrs. Elizabeth Drew (Barstow) ... 
 
 256 
 
 Stoddaed — ^Richard Henry 
 
 ... 247 
 
 Story — William Wetmore 
 
 197 
 
 Steeet — ^Alfred Billings 
 
 ... 134 
 
 Taylor — ^Bayard 
 
 258 
 
 Thaxtee — ^Mrs. Celia (Leighton) 
 
 ... 309 
 
 Thobeau — ^Henry David ... 
 
 157 
 
 TiLTON — ^Theodore ... 
 
 ... 305 
 
 Timeod — ^Henry 
 
 278 
 
 TE0-W3RIDGE — John Townsend 
 
 ... 273 
 
 TucKEEMAN — ^Heniy Theodore 
 
 141 
 
 Victor— Mrs. P. E. ... 
 
 ... 364 
 
 Wallace — ^William Boss 
 
 191 
 
 Weeks — Eobert KeUy 
 
 ... 356 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Whitman— Walter— (" Walt") 
 Whitney — Mrs. Adeline D. (Train) 
 Whittieb — John Greenleaf ... 
 Willis — Nathaniel Parker 
 WiLLSON — Byron Forceythe ... 
 Winter — William 
 Wood WORTH — Samuel 
 
 199 
 
 246 
 
 86 
 
 83 
 
 323 
 
 316 
 
 15 
 
 INote. — I have given no Index of First Lines, exipposing that few 
 who could recollect the first line would not be able to recall the name 
 of either the poem or the poet, under one of ■which indices the poem 
 may be readily found.] 
 
 / 
 
NEGEO SONG. 
 
 It seems well to supplement this collection of American Poetry, so 
 nearly all Northern, with some specimens of almost the only 
 poetical utterances of the South — the hymns and songs of the 
 Slaves. Eude and unformed as they are, they come from the 
 heart, the\ true source of poetic inspiration. They need no more 
 preface. We begin with the first stanza of one, probably of 
 Florida composition, sung by Col : Higginson's black regiment. 
 
 O, my mudder is gone 1 my mudder is gone ! 
 My mudder ia gone to heaven, my Lord ! 
 
 I can't stay behind. 
 Dere's room in dar, room in dar, 
 Koom in dar, in de heaven, my Ixird ! 
 
 I can't stay behind. 
 Can't stay behind, my dear ! 
 
 I can't stay behind. 
 
 Another is called 
 
 poosnosT. 
 
 Poor Kosy, poor gal ! 
 Poor Kosy, poor gal I 
 Eosy break my poor heart : 
 
 Heav'n ehall-a be my home. 
 I can not stay in hell one day, ' . i . 
 
 Heav'n shall-a be my home ; • 
 I'll sing and pray my soul away, 
 
 Heav'n shall-a be my home. 
 
oSO NEGRO SONG. 
 
 Got hard trial in my way, (thrice) 
 Heav'n shall-a be my liomc. 
 
 when I talk I talk wid God (twice) 
 Heav'n shall-a be my home. 
 
 1 dunno what de people want of me, (thrice) 
 Heav'n shall-a be my home. 
 
 This is a very favourite hymn. The words are alterable. Poor 
 Kosy, poor gal ! may be .changed for Poor Cajsar, poor boy ! Talk 
 with God may be Walk with God. De People may be De Massa. 
 According to circumstances. Such changes and interpolations 
 occur in all the Songs. The following was popular in the coloured 
 schools of Charleston in 1865, and is still sung over the Sea Islands : 
 
 Nobody knows de trouble I've li£wi. 
 
 Nobody knows but Jesus ; 
 Nobody knows de trouble I've had : 
 (Sing) Glory, hallelu ! 
 One morning I was a-walking down, O yes. Lord ! i 
 I saw some berries a-hanging down, yes, Lord ! j 
 
 I pick de berry and I suck de juice, O yes. Lord ! ' 
 Just as sweet as de honey in de comb, O yes. Lord ! 
 
 Sometimes I'm up, sometimes I'm down, O yes, Lord ! 
 Sometimes I'm almost on de groun', yes. Lord ! 
 
 What make ole Satan hate me so ? O yes. Lord ! 
 Because he got me once and let me go. yes, Lord ! 
 
 Of Virginian origin, probably thence spreading South, and 
 variously modified in different localities, is this : 
 
 O'KR THE CBOSSINa. 
 
 Bendin' knees a-achln', body rack'd wid pain, 
 
 I wish I was a child of God, I'd git home bime-by. 
 
 Keep prayin', I do believe we're a long time waggin' o' de crossin' ; 
 Keep prayin', I do belieye we'll git home bime-by. 
 
 O yonder's my ole mudder, been a-waggin' at do hill so long ; 
 
 It's about time she cross over, — ^git home bime-by. 
 Keep prayin', — I do believe, etc, 
 
 O hear dat lumberin' thunder, a-roll from do' to do', 
 
 A-callin' de people home to God ; dey'U get home bime-by. 
 Little chil'n, I do believe, etc 
 
 see dat forked lightnin' a-jump from cloud to cloud, 
 A-pickin' up God's chil'n ; dey'll git home time-by. 
 Pray, mourner I I do believe, etc 
 
NEGEO SONG. * 381 
 
 The next may be also Virginian, tliougli obtained from a 
 Carolinan Negro. 
 
 GOB GOT PLENTY 0' ROOM. 
 
 God got plenty o' room, got plenty o' room, 
 
 'Way in de kingdom ; 
 God got plenty o' room my Jesiis say, 
 
 'Way in de kingdom. 
 
 Brethren ! I have come again — 'Way, etc. 
 To help you all to pray and sing — 'Way, etc. 
 
 So many weeks and days has pass'd 
 Since we met together last. 
 
 Old Satan tremble when he sees 
 The weakest saints npon their knees. 
 
 Prayer makes the darkest cloud withdraw, 
 1 Prayer climb'd the ladder Jacob saw. 
 
 Daniel's wisdom may I know, 
 Stephen's faith and spirit sure. 
 
 John's divine communion feel, 
 Joseph's meek and Joshua's zeaL 
 
 There's a school on earth begun 
 Supported by the Holy One. 
 
 We shall soon lay our school-books by. 
 And shout salvation as I fly 
 'Way in de kingdom. 
 
 Descending to secular verse we may take some notice of the 
 
 CHARLESTON GALS. 
 
 As I walk'd down the new-cut road, 
 I met the tap and then the toad ; 
 The toad commenced to whistle and sing, 
 ' And the 'possum cut the pigeon- wing. 
 Along cqme an old man riding by : 
 Old man ! if you don't mind, your horse will die. 
 If he dies Pll tan his skin ; 
 And if he lives I'll ride him agin.. , . . . 
 
382 NEGRO SONG. 
 
 Our next is one of the Mississipi steam-boat songs. 
 
 I'M GWINE TO ALABAMY. 
 
 I'm gwine to Alabamy — Oh! {prolonged for a viliole Tjar") 
 For to see my mammy — Ah ! (equally lield on to) 
 
 She went from Die Virginny — Oh ! 
 And I'm her pickaninny — ^Ah ! 
 
 Now I'm a good big nigger — Oh ! 
 I reckon I won't git bigger — Ah ! 
 
 But I'd like to see my mammy — Oh ! 
 Who lives in Alabamy — Ah ! 
 
 We may add yet another — a song of the Savannah firemen — 
 
 REAVE AWAY! 
 
 Heave away ! heave away ! / 
 
 I'd rather court a yellow gal than work for Henry CJlay : 
 Heave away 1 heave away ! 
 
 Yellow gal ! I want to go. 
 I'd rather court a yellow gal than work for Henry Clay. 
 Heave away I Yellow gal ! I want to go. 
 
 And one more,' which seems to be neither wholly serious nor 
 wholly fun — ■ 
 
 'BECCA LAWTON. 
 
 Kain fall and wet 'Becca Lawton — Oh ! . . . 
 Kain fall and wet 'Becca Lawton — Oh ! 
 Oh, brudder ! cry holy. 
 
 Do, 'Becca Lawton ! come to me yonder — Oh ! 
 
 Say, 'brudder Tony ! what shall I do now ?— Oh ! 
 
 Beat (or rack) back holy, and rock salvation. — Oh 1 
 
 No one knows who 'Becca Lawton was, and the song may be 
 an old invocation for rain.' The song ends with a laugh ; and when 
 
NEGRO SONG. 383 
 
 used as a rowing tune, at the words "Back back hohr! " eact rower 
 readies back and slaps the man behind him. The long " Oh ! " in 
 the first line is given thus : — 
 
 m 
 
 Oh! . . 
 
 And now some specimens of the music may complete our brief 
 notice of Negro Song. It is for their music that the songs are 
 famous. Music and words we borrow either from the Slave Songs 
 of the United States (a collection of 136 songs, with music, made in 
 1867 by William Francis Allen, Charles Pickard Ware, and Lucy 
 McTTim Gtarrison) or from^ a smaller selection (Boston, Lee & 
 SJiepard) appended to the book of the " Jubilee Singers," coloured 
 students of Fisk University, Nashville, Kentucky, lately travelling 
 and singing through England. All that need be here said further 
 of the music is in the words of the editors of the Slave Songs. 
 However 6riginal or barbarous, " the chief part of the Negro Music 
 is civUized in its character, partly composed under the iniiuence of 
 association with the whites, partly actually imitated from their 
 music." StiU, after all deductions, there is a vein of originality 
 throughout, " original in the best sense of the word, and the more 
 we examine the more genuine it appears to be." 
 
 Both of the books above-named are worth referring to by the 
 student, for a full and exact account of the songs and of the nature 
 and peculiarities of the accompanying music. ' 
 
584 
 
 KEGRO SONG. 
 STEAL AWAY. 
 
 steal a way, steal a - way, steal 
 
 - way to Je - 9U3 ! 
 
 -a» £> 1— w— ^ V — »• ^ — -j^ b* 1^ ^ 
 
 -tP* — ! — * y — ' Li > — 
 
 Green trees are bending. 
 
 Poor sinners stand trembling; 
 The trumpet sounds it in my soul ; 
 
 I hain't got long to stay here. 
 ChoTvs. — Steal away, etc. 
 
 My Lord calls me. 
 
 He calls me by the lightning ; 
 Tlie trumpet sounds it in my soul : 
 
 I hain't got long to stay here. 
 C/iorus.— Steal away, etc 
 
 Tombstones are bursting. 
 
 Poor sinners are trembling ; 
 Tlie trumpet sounds it in my son." : 
 
 I hain't got long to stay here. 
 Chorus. — Steal away, etc 
 
NEGEO SONG. 
 THE TEN VIRGINS. 
 
 385 
 
 i 
 
 ft* 
 
 ^ 
 
 =i=)=i- 
 
 =p 
 
 =1= 
 
 
 ::fi=ft=)i=iit: 
 
 -| — r 
 
 r 
 
 1. Five of them were wise when the bride -groom came, 
 
 SE 
 
 Five of them were wise when the bride 
 -J J 
 
 groom came. 
 
 2. Five of them were foolish when the bridegroom came, 
 Five of them were foolish when the bridegroom came. 
 
 Chorus. — O Zion, etc 
 
 3. The wise they took oil when the bridegroom came, 
 The wise they took oil when the bridegroom came. 
 
 Cliorus. — Zion, etc. 
 
 4. The foolish took no oil when the bridegroom came, 
 The foolish took no oil when the bridegroom came. 
 
 Cliorus. — Zion, etc. 
 
 5. The foolish they kept knocking when the bridegroom came, 
 The foolish they kept knocking when the bridegroom came. 
 
 Chorus. — O Zion, etc. 
 
 6. Depart, I never knew yon, said the bridegroom, then, 
 Depart, I never knew you, said the bridegroom, then. 
 
 Chorus. — O Zion, etc. 
 
^86 
 
 NEUftO SONG. 
 ROLL, JORDAN, ROLL. 
 
 Eoll, Jbr-dan, roll. Roll, Jor^dan, roll, I want to go to 
 
 J . I > 
 
 ik4- i^ . 
 
 =^- 
 
 sit -ting in the king-dom. To 
 
 ^t! yv /• j^, ^ >; 
 
 hear Jor - dan roll. 
 
 2. Oh, preachers ! you ouglit t' have been there : 
 
 Yes, my Lord ! 
 A-sitting in the kingdom, to hear Jordan roll. 
 
 3. Oh, sinners ! you ought t' have been there, etc. 
 
 4. Oh, mourners ! you ouglit t' have been there, etc. 
 
 5. Oh, seekers ! you ought t' have been there, etc 
 
 6. Oh, mothers ! you ought t' have been there, etc 
 
 7. Oh, children 1 you ought f have been there, etc. 
 
NEGKO SONG. 
 
 387 
 
 3XLANY THOUSAND GONE. 
 
 Plaintively. 
 
 1. No more auc - tion block for me, !No more, no more ; 
 
 Shfc: 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^P 
 
 PE ^^ ^E 
 
 ^^ 
 
 No more auc - tion block for me, Ma - ny thou - sand gone. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 fcjiJLirj-i l 
 
 
 5E=te 
 
 2. No more peck o' com for me, etc. 
 
 3. No more driver's lash for me, etc. 
 
 4. No more pint o' salt for me, etc. 
 
 5. No more hundred lash for me, etc. 
 
 6. No more mistress' call for me, etc. 
 
 AWAY DOWN IN STJNBtTRY. 
 
 f O, mas -6a, take dat new bran coat And hang it on de wall,^ 
 1 Dat dar-kee take dat same ole coat And wear *em to de ball.. 
 
 sigh? A- way down in Sun-bur-y I'mbonndtolive and die. 
 
) 
 
 FEINTED BT WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, 
 STAMPOEB STKEET AKD CHAKIKO CEOSS. 
 
 A/ 
 
COMPLETE CATALOGUE 
 
 BOHN'S LIBEAEIES, 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 STANjDAED WORKS OP EUEOPEAN LITERATURE IN THE ENOLISH 
 LAJtdpAGE, ON HISTORY, BIOGRAPHT, TOPOGRAPHY, ARCHAEOLOGY, 
 THE01U3GT, ANTIQUITIES, SCIENCE, PHILOSOPHY, NATURAL HISTORY, 
 POETRY, ART, FICTION, WITH DICTIONARIES, AND OTHER BOOKS OP 
 BEPERBNCE. THE SERIES COIIPRISES TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH, 
 QEEMAlL ITALIAN, SPANISH, SCANDINAVIAN, ANGLO-SAXON, LATIN, AND 
 GREEK. PRICE 3s. 6d. OR 5s. PER VOLUME (WITH EXCEPTIONS). A 
 COMPLETE SET IN 626 VOLUMES, PRICE £136 19s. 6d. 
 
 Catalogues sent Post-free on Application. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, 
 
 COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 1878. 
 
June, 187S. 
 
 COMPLETE CATALOGUE 
 
 BOH N'S LIB R ARIES. 
 
 STANDARD LIBRARY. 
 
 A SERIES OF THE BEST EKGLIBH AND FOEEIGK AUTHOKS, PEIKTED 
 
 IN POST 8V0. 
 
 253 Vols, at 35. 6iJ. each, excepting those marked otherwise. 
 
 Addison's "Worka. With the Notes 
 of Bishop HoBD, mnch additional mBtter, 
 flQd upwards of 100 Unpublished Letters. 
 Edited by H. G. Bohh. PortrtvU and 8 
 JBnffravinffS on Ste^L In 6 vols. 
 
 Alfieri's Tragedies, including those 
 published posthumously.' Translated into 
 English Verse, and edited with Notes and 
 Introductioo, by Eikjar A. Bottbihg, C.B. 
 
 2 V0l3. 
 
 Bacon's Essays, Apophthegms, Wis- 
 dom of the Ancients, New Atloniia, and 
 Henry VII., with IntroductioD and Notes, 
 
 Portrait. 
 
 Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry 
 of England. Edited by Eoeert Bell. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, a popular 
 ■Selection from. By Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Beckmann'e History of Inventions, 
 DiBcovoriea, and Origins. Revised and 
 enlarged. Portraitt. in 2 vola. 
 
 Bremer's CBIisa) "Works. Translated by 
 MXkt Howttt. PoriiTait. In 4 vols. 
 VoL 1. The Neighbours and other Talea; 
 VoL 2. The President's Daughter. 
 VoL 3- The Home, and Strife and Peace. 
 Vol 4. A Diary, the H Family, &c 
 
 British Poets, from Milton to Eirke 
 
 White. Cabinet Edition In 4 vols. 
 Browne's (Sir Thomas) Works. 
 
 Edited by Simon Wilkin. In 3 vols,^ 
 Burke's Works. In 6 Volumes. 
 
 Vol. 1. Vindication of Natural Society. 
 
 On the Sublime and Beautiful, and 
 
 FoUtical Miscellanies. 
 
 Vol. 3. French Revolution, Jtc. 
 
 Vol. 3. Appeal from the New to the 
 
 Old Whiga ; the Catholic Claims, Ac , 
 
 VoL 4. On the Affairs of India, and 
 
 Chaise against Warren Hastings. 
 yoL 6. Conclosion of Chaige against 
 
 Hastily ; on a R^dde Peace, &o. 
 VoL 6. Miscellaneous Speechea^ ' -&C.' 
 With a Gen«-al Index. 
 18 
 
 Burke's Speeches on Warren Hast- 
 ings; and Letterti. With Indck. In 
 2 vols, (fonnlng vols. 7 and S/oS the 
 works). ] 
 
 Life. By PSiOK. l^ew and 
 
 revised Edition. Portrait. 
 
 BuUer's (Ep.) Analogy of ^Ugion, 
 
 and. Sermons, with Notes. Pwirait^ 
 Camoens' Lusiad, llllckle*s /Transla- 
 tion. Edited by E. R. Hodges. 
 Gary's Translation of Dante's Hea- 
 ven, Hell, and Porgatoiy. Copyright 
 edition, being the only one containing 
 Gary's last corrections and additions. 
 
 Carafas (The) of Maddaloni: and 
 
 Naples under Spanish Dominion, Trans- 
 lated from the Gorman of Alfred de 
 R£»umont. 
 
 Carrel's Counter Revolution in Eng- 
 land. Fox's HistoryJ and Lonedale'e 
 Memoir of James EL Portrait.- 
 
 Cellini (Benvenuto), Memoirs of 
 Translated by Roscox. P^nirait. 
 
 Cervantes' Galatea. Translated by 
 Gordon Gtll. 
 
 Chaucer's Works. Edited by Robert 
 Bell. New Edition, improved. With 
 Introduction by W. W. Skeat. 4 vols. 
 
 Coleridge's (S. T.) Friend. A Series of 
 Essays on Morals, Politics, and ReUgioiL 
 
 (S. T.) Biographia Liter- 
 aria, and two Lay Sermons. 
 
 Commines. {See Philip de Commines.) 
 
 Conde's Dominion of the Arabs in 
 spam. Translated Ly Mrs. Fosteb. In 
 3 vols. 
 Cowper's Complete Works. Edited, 
 with Memoir of the Author, by Sodthet. 
 Ulttttrated with 60 Enffravingt.i In 8 vols. 
 
 Vols. 1 to 4.'M&moIr and Correspolidence. 
 
 Vols. 6 and 6. Poetical Works. Plates. 
 
 Vol t. Homer*a mad. Phitet. 
 
 VoL a Homer'B_OdyBsey. PlaUt* 
 
BOHirS VARIOUS LIBRARIES. 
 
 Goxe*s Memoirs of the Doke of 
 
 Marlborough. Portmiti. In 3 vols. 
 •»' An Atlas of tlie plans of Msrlborocgh'e 
 campaigns, 4to, 10». 6(i, 
 
 " Hiatory of the Houee of 
 
 Anstria. PortraiU. In 4 vola. 
 
 Ciiiinuigham*s Lives of the British 
 
 Painters, Sculptors, and Architects. New 
 Edition by Mrs. Heaton. [/n the Press. 
 
 /)efoe'B Works. Edited by Sir Walter 
 
 Scott- In 7 "^ola. 
 
 Dfc) Lolme on the Constitation of Eng- 
 land. Edited, with Notes, by Johb 
 
 1 tiCGBEGOE. 
 
 Eirierson's Works. 2 vols. 
 Foster's (John) Life and Corrosponi- 
 
 eoce. Edited by J. E. Rti-and. In 2 vols, 
 
 Lectures at Broadmead 
 
 Cha^peL Edited by J. E. Rtlakd. Id 
 
 2 vols. 
 
 Foster's (John) Critical Essays. Edited 
 by J. E, Etlakd. In 2 vole. 
 
 -AEssays — On Decision of Cha- 
 
 racter.acc. See 
 
 pssays — On the Evila of Po- 
 pular Ignorance, be 
 
 ' Fosteriana : Thoughts, He- 
 flections, and Criticiams of the late Johw 
 Foster, selected from periodical papers, 
 and Edited by Hkhey G. Bohk (nearly 
 600 pages). 6«. 
 
 Fuller's lAndrew) Principal Works. 
 
 With Memoir. Portrait. 
 Gibbon's Eoman Empire, Complete 
 and Unabridged, with Notes ; Including, 
 in addition to the Author's own,'1ihose of 
 Gnizot, W«ack, Ntebuhr, Hngo; Neander, 
 and otiier foreign scholars; and' on > ela- 
 borate Index. Edited, by aoi EzigUsb 
 Cburchman. In 7 vols. 
 
 Soethe's Works, Translated into Eng- 
 lish, In V vols. 
 Vols. 1, and2. Autoblograpliy,20 Boots ; 
 and Travels in Italy, France, and 
 ' Switzerland. Portrait. 
 YoL 3, . F'anst, Iphigenlfl,' Torqucto 
 _ Tasso, E^ont, &c^ by.Misa Swak- 
 - -- "wtcs ; and (Jotz von Berlichingen, by 
 Sir- Waltek Scott. FronHyoieee. 
 
 , -VoL 4., Novels and Tales. '. 
 
 YoL 5. Wilhelna Meister's Appren^ce- 
 
 ahlp. 
 'VoLOi CoDversationfi with E<^ermium 
 f ..and' Soret. "-Translated by Johk 
 
 OXENFORD. ■.' _ . V- 
 
 YoL 7. - Poems and Ballads,, incladiog 
 Hermann and Dorothea. Translated 
 by E. A. BowEtNG, C.B. 
 ^Correspondence with Schiller. 
 
 See SchUler.' .t'- ■ :. 
 
 Greene, Marlowe, and Ben Jonson' 
 Poems of. E<lited by ItoBERT Bell 
 "With Biographies. In 1 vol. 
 
 Gregory's (Dr.) Evidences, Doctrines, 
 
 and Duties of the Cbrlatian Beligion. 
 Guizot'sEepresuntative Gc vemment. 
 
 Translated by A. R. Scoble. 
 History of the English Uevo- 
 
 Intton of 1640. Translatod by Williajk 
 
 Hazlitt. Pcrtraii. 
 
 History of Civilization. Trans- 
 lated by William Hazlctt. In 3 vols. 
 Portrait. 
 
 Hazlitt's Table Talk. A New Edition 
 In one volume. 
 
 Lectures on the Comic 
 
 "Writers, and on the English Poet^ 
 
 Lectures on the Literature 
 
 of ibe Age of Elizabeth, and on Cliaracters 
 of Sfaakespear's Plays. 
 
 Plain Speaker. 
 
 Bound Table ; the, Convei-sa- 
 
 tions of James NoainooTBi, R.A.; Cha- 
 ractertsticE, &c. 
 
 Sketches and Essays, and 
 
 Wlnterslow (Essays Written tbere). New 
 Edition. 
 
 Hall's (Hev. Sobert) Kiscellaneous 
 Woifes and Remains, with Memoir by 
 Dr. G-EEQOEY, and an Essay on- his ChO' 
 racter by Johs FosTsa. Portrait. ; ' 
 
 Hawthorne's Tales, In 2 vols, ' . 
 YoL 1. Twice Told Tales,' and' the 
 
 Snow image. _ . 
 
 YoL 2. Scarlet Letter, and the : House 
 
 witli the seven Gables. -. . - 
 
 Heine's Poems, complete, from the 
 German, by E. A; Bowhiko, CB.' B». 
 
 Hungary: its History and Eevolu- 
 tions ; with a Memt ir of Kossuth from 
 new and authentic sources. Portraxt. 
 
 Hutchinson (Colonel), Memoirs of, 
 with the Siege of Latham House. 
 
 Irvii^s (Washington) Life and Let- 
 ters. By his N^hew, Pikees E. Ibvthg- 
 In 2 vola, 
 
 — Complete Works. In 15 
 
 VOlfl. 
 
 YoL 1. Salmagundi and I&iickerbocker 
 
 Portrait of the Attthor. 
 YoL X Sbotch Book dnd Life of Gold- 
 
 Gmlth. .-■-.,.•' 
 
 YoL 3. Bracebridge Hall and Abbots- 
 ford and Newstead. • 
 
 YoL 4. Tales of a Traveller end the 
 Alhambra. 
 
 VoL 8. Conquest of Granada and Con- 
 quest of Spain. 
 
A OATALOGUS OF 
 
 Irving's Works — continued. 
 
 Vols. 6 and 1. lAfe oi uummbns and 
 Companions of Colombaa, with a new 
 Index. Pirn Fortrcut. 
 
 VoL 8. Aatoiia and Tonr In the Prairies. 
 
 VoL 9. Mahomet and his Snccessora. 
 
 VoL 10. ConqucBt ol Florida and Ad- 
 ventures of Captain Bonneville. 
 
 VoL H, Btographiea and MitW'ellaniea. 
 
 Vols. 12-15. LifeofAVasliington. For- 
 trait. 
 
 For leparate Worfa, tee Oheap Reriet. 
 
 James's (G. P. E.) Eichard Coeur-de- 
 Lion, King of England. PortraiU. 2 vols. 
 
 Louis XIV. Portraits. 2 vols 
 
 Juniiis'B Letters, with Notes, Ad- 
 ditions, and an index. In 2 vols. 
 
 Lamartine's History of the Girond- 
 
 Iflta. Portraits. In 3 vols. 
 Eestoration of the Monarohyj 
 
 with Index. Partraitt tn 4 vols. 
 French Eevolution of lft48, 
 
 with a fine frontispiece 
 
 Lamb's (Charles) Eli a and Eliana. 
 
 Complete Edition. 
 
 Dramatic Poets of the Time 
 
 of Elizabeth ; Including hU Selections from 
 the Garrick Flaye. 
 
 Lanzl's History of Painting. Trans- 
 lated by EoscoE. Portraits In S vols. 
 
 Xessing's Dramatic Works. Com- 
 plete, with ilemoir by Helen Ziumeiln. 
 Portrait. 2 vols. 
 
 Chief Prose Works. Edited 
 
 by Helen Zqimeex. 
 
 Xocke's Philosophical Works, con- 
 tA<niTig an Essay on the HTiTnan Under- 
 standing, &c., with Noies and Index by 
 J. A, St. Johh. Portrait In 3 vols. 
 
 Life and Letters, with Ex- 
 tracts from his Common-PUce Books, by 
 f^rd Knro. 
 
 Luther's Table Talk. Translated by 
 
 Welliah Hazlht. Portrait 
 l£achiavelli*8 History of Florence, 
 
 The Prince, and other Works. Portrait. 
 Martineau*s History of the Peace, 
 
 from 1815-1846. 4 vols. 
 
 Menzel's History of Germany. Por- 
 traits. In 3 vols. 
 
 lfichelet*B Life of Luther. Tran.slateo 
 by William Hazlitt. 
 
 Eoman Bepublic. Translated 
 
 by William Hazlitt. 
 French Eevolution, with In- 
 
 Mignet's French Eevolution from 
 1789 to 1814. Portrait. 
 
 Hilton's Prose Works, with Index. 
 Portraits. In 5 vols. 
 
 Mitford*s (Mary E.) Our Village. Im- 
 proved Ed., complete. Illustrated. 3to1j. 
 
 Moliere'e Dramatic Works, Trans- 
 hited by C. It Wall. In 3 vols. Portrait. 
 
 Montesquieu's Spirit of the Laws.. 
 A new Edition revised and corrected'. 
 2 vols. Portrait. 
 
 Neander'fl Church History. Trans- 
 lated : with General Index. In 10 vola. 
 Life of Christ. Translatedi 
 
 First Planting of Christi- 
 anity, and Antlgnostikos. TranBlatecf. In 
 2 vola. 
 
 History of Christian Dogmas. 
 
 Translated. In 3 vols. 7 
 
 . Christian Life In the ;E£arly 
 
 dex. Frontispiece. 
 20 
 
 and Middle Ages, Including his ' (flight in 
 Dark Places.' Translated- / 
 
 Ockley's History of the Sstacens. 
 Kevised and completed. Portrait. 
 
 Percy*s Eeliques of Ancient English 
 Poetry. Reprinted from the Original Edi- 
 «on, and Edited by J. V. PRiCHAiD. In 
 3 voU. 
 
 PhiliD de Commines, Memoirs of, 
 
 containing the Hist(»ies of Lools XL and 
 Charles VHL, and of Charles the Bold, 
 Dnke of Bnrgundy. To whidi Is added. 
 The Scandalous Chronicle, or Secret 
 History of Lools XL Portraits. In 
 3 vols. 
 
 Poetry of America. Selections from 
 TOO American Poets, from 1776— 1876. 
 Edited by W. J. Linton. Portrait. 
 
 Eanke's History ef the Popes. Trans- 
 lated by E. FosTEa. In 3 vols. 
 
 Eanke's Servia and the Servian Ee- 
 volntlon. 
 
 Eeynolds' (Sir Joshua) Literary 
 Works. Portrait. In 3 vole, 
 
 Eichter (Jean Paul Fr.) Levana 
 
 aud Autobiography. With Slemolr. 
 
 Flower, Fruit, and Thorn 
 
 Piecea A NoveL 
 Eoscoe's Life and Pontificate of 
 
 Leo X. with the Copyright Notes, and an 
 
 Index. Portraits. In 3 vols. 
 Life of Lorenzo de Medici, 
 
 with the Copyright Notes, &c. Portrait. 
 Eussia, History of, by Walteb K, 
 
 Kelly. Portraits. In 3 vols. 
 
BOHirS VABI0U8 LIBRAMIES. 
 
 SoIiiller'B "Works. Translated into 
 Eaglish. In 6 vola. 
 Val. 1. Thirty TesTS' War, and Kevoll 
 
 Oi the Netherlands. 
 ■7oL 2. CorMmiation of the Revoli 
 
 of the Netherlands; Wallenslein'a 
 
 Camp ; the Piccolomini ; the Deatb 
 
 of WaUenatoln ; and WUUam Tea 
 VoL 3. Don Carlos, Mary Stnart, Maid 
 
 of OrleanB, and Bride of Messina. 
 VoL 4. The Robbers, Flesco, Love and 
 
 Intrljfae, and the Ghost-Seer. 
 VoL G. Poems. Translated by EixjiE 
 
 Bowsing, C.B. 
 Vol- 6. Philosophical Ix-ttera and S.S- 
 
 thetical Essays. 
 
 Correspondence -witli Goethe, 
 
 translated by L. Dora Schjiiiz. 2 vols. 
 
 SoMf.gel'B Philosophy of Lifa and 
 or language, translatsd by A. J. W. Mob- 
 
 ElSOZf. 
 
 ■ \ History of literature, An- 
 cient ind Modem. Now first completely 
 translated, with General Index. 
 
 — ^ Philosophy of History. 
 
 Translated by J. B. Robeetson. Portrait, 
 
 Dramatic Literature. 
 
 Translated. Portrait. 
 
 • Modem History. 
 
 .Esthetic and Miscellaneous 
 
 Works. 
 
 Sheridan's Dramatic 
 Life. PvrtrOAt. 
 
 Works and 
 
 Sismondi'a Literature of the South 
 of Europe. Translated by Roscoe. Por- 
 traits. In 2 vols. 
 
 Smith's (Adam) Theory of the Moral 
 Sentiments ; with his Essay on the Flrflt 
 Formation of Langnagea. 
 
 Smyth's (Professor) Lectures on 
 Modern History. In 2 vols. 
 
 Lectures on the French Ee- 
 
 volntioTi, In 2 vols. 
 Sturm's Horning Communings with 
 
 God, or Dcvoticiial Meditations for Ever? 
 
 i->ay la the Year. 
 Bally, Eemoira of the Duke of. Prime 
 
 Minister to Henry the Great. FmtraiU. 
 
 In 4 vols- 
 Taylor's (Bishop Jeremy) Holy Living 
 
 and Dying. Portrait. 
 Thierry's Conquest of England by 
 
 the Normans. Translated by WnilAM 
 
 HA2UTT. Portrait. In 2 vols. 
 
 tririci (Dr.) Shakespeare's Dramatic 
 
 Art, Translated by L. D. Schmita. 2 vols. 
 Vasari's Lives of the Psuiiters, 
 
 Sculptors, and Architects. Translated by 
 
 Mrs. FosTTEB. 6 vols. 
 ■Wesley's (John) Life. By Eobebt 
 
 SoTTTHEY. New and Complete EdltloB. 
 
 Double volnrce. With Portrait, bi. 
 
 Wheatley on the Book of Common 
 Prayer. Frontispiece. 
 
 HISTORICAL LIBRARY. 
 
 21 Vols, at 5s, each. 
 
 Evelyn's Diary and Correspondeiice, 
 
 Illustrated wi£k nwrnercui PortraUt, &c 
 In 4 vols. 
 
 Pepys* Diary and Correspondence. 
 Edited by Lord Braybrooke. With Notes, 
 Important Additions, inclnding namerocfl 
 Letters. XQiVXtroAed, wi£A many FvrtroxU, 
 
 In 4 vols. 
 
 Teeae*s Uemoirs of the Beign of the 
 
 Stiiarts, Inclnding the Protectorate. With 
 General Index, C^puurdx qf 40 Portraitt 
 , in3jTols. , 
 
 Jesse's Memoirs ot the Pretenders 
 and their Adhercnta. 6 Portraitt. 
 
 Nngent's (Lord) MemoHaLi of 
 Hampden, his Party, and Tlmea. 12 
 Portraits. 
 
 Strickland*s (Agnes) Lives of the 
 Qaeens of England, from the NormBn 
 Conqaeet. From ofScial records and 
 authentic docnments, prlyate and pnblto. 
 Revised Edition. In 6 vols. 
 
 Life of Mary Queen of Scots. 
 
 , 2 vols. 
 
 -21 
 
A OATALOGVE OF 
 
 COLLEGIATE SERIES. 
 
 6 Vols, at 5s. each. 
 
 Donaldson's Theatre of the Greeks. 
 
 Illostrated with Lithographs and nn- 
 merons Wtwdcuts, 
 
 Keightley's Classical Myxhology. 
 New Edition, Revised by, l>r, L. 
 ScHMiTZ. With 12 plates. 
 
 HerodotUR, Turner's {Dawson W.) 
 Notes to. vVith Map, &c. 
 
 Herodotus, 'SOieelar's AnalyaiB and 
 -^uiiiniary Ot. 
 
 Thucydides, "Wheeler's Analysis cf. 
 
 Kew Teatamanl. (The) in Greek.. 
 Gnesb<u:ii's Text, with tbfr reet^ings cf 
 aiill and Scb>-.)v, taz&Uei Kfcf=reiiajs, 
 a Gritical Jutrortnct'oo and Chronoiogii"ai3 
 Cables. TuK> fac-simi^ qf Grtek MS:S. 
 ?.s. Ad. ; or witti Le iicoti, Er. Lexi':»n 
 Separately, 2s. 
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL LIBRARY. 
 
 11 Vols, at 5s. each, excepting those liiarTced otlterwise. 
 
 Comtfi'B Philosophy of the Sciences. I 
 
 By G. BL Le-k-ts. 
 Draper (J. W.) A History of the 
 
 Intellectual Development of Enrope. By 
 John William Draper, M.D^ LL..D, A 
 New Edition, thoroughly Revised by the 
 Author. In 2 vols. 
 
 HogePs Lectures on the Philosophy 
 
 ai Hifltory. Translated by J. Sibeee, M-4. 
 
 Sant's Critique of Pure Eaason. 
 Translated by J. M. D. MEiSLEJorts. 
 
 Logic ; or, the Science of Iniironce. 
 A Popular Mannal. By J. DirvE;!. 
 
 aiiiler'a (Professor) History Philoso- 
 phically considered. In 4 toIb. 3:. 6d, 
 each. 
 
 Tennemann's Manual of the BoBtory 
 of Philosophy. Continued by J. R- McasLr 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL ANB THEOLOGICAL 
 LIBRARY. 
 
 15 Vols, at 5s. eadij excepting these marked otheru-ise. 
 
 Bleek (T.) An. Introductioa to the 
 Old Testament, by FEiEDBtc^ Bleek. 
 Edited by Josakn Bleek and Adolf 
 Kamphausen. Translated from the Ger- 
 man by G. H- Tenables, imder the 
 supervision of the Rev. E. Vesables, 
 Canon of Lincoln. New Edition. In 2 
 vols. 
 
 Chillingworth's Religion of Pro- 
 teatant£. as. Qd. 
 
 Eosebius' Ecclesiastical History. 
 Wtth Notea. 
 
 HardwicVs Histcn^ of the Articles ! 
 
 of Religion. To which is added aSeries of j 
 Docomeuta from a.d. 1536 to aj>. 1615. 
 Together with IllnBtratlons from Contem- 
 porary Sources. New Edition, revised by 
 Rev. E. Pboctee. 
 22 
 
 Henry's (Katthew) Commentary on 
 
 tlie Paalms AViTitfrou* niustration; . 
 
 Pearson on the Creed. Kew Edition. 
 
 With AnalysiH and Notes. 
 Phito JudSBUa, "Works of ; -the con- 
 temporary of Josephna. Tranfilated .by 
 
 C- D. YoEge In 4 vols. 
 Socrates' Ecclesiastical History, in 
 
 contlntiatlon of Enaebiua. With tht Notes 
 
 of Valeelus, 
 Soxomen's Ecclesiastical Sieiory, 
 
 from A^. 324-440 : and the Ecclesiastical 
 
 History of Philostorgius. 
 
 Theodoret and Evagrius. Ecdesias- 
 ttcal Histcriee, trom a.t>.~332 to a.d. 427 
 and from a.d. 431 to *..t» -Sli. - 
 
 Wieseler's Chronological Synopsis of 
 the Four Gospels. Translated by Cakon 
 Vesables. New Edition, revisecL 
 
SOHN'S VABIOVS LIBUAJilES. 
 
 ANTIQUARIAN LIBRARY. 
 
 34 Vols, at hs. each. 
 
 Bedels Ecclesiastical EiEtory, and 
 
 tiw iiiglo-Saxon Chronlcie. 
 Boethius'a Consolation of Fbiloso- 
 
 5 by. Ill Anglo-Saxon, with tho A. S. 
 letres, smd an English Tranelatioc, by 
 tb« Kev. S. Fo2. 
 
 K.Tand'a Popular Antiquities of Eng- 
 land, Scotland, and Jjreland. Ety Sir Hehkx 
 >!1lli5. In 3 vola. 
 
 Chronicles of the Crusaders. Richai-d 
 o^ Oevizes, Geoffrey da VUisauf, Lord do 
 J(j»Inville. 
 
 Early Travels in Palestine. Wiili- 
 baid, Saewult Benjamin of Tadela, Man- 
 deville. La Brocquiere, and Maundrell; 
 all ', nnabridged. £<iited by Thomas 
 Weicght. 
 
 Ellisls Early EngliflU Metrical Ro- 
 mances, Revised by J. O. HALLnvELL. 
 
 FloreicQ of Worcester's Chrcnicls, 
 ■wl'wb ihe Two'Coatlncatioiis : comprising 
 AnaalB s/t Rn g li jj h Hlstorv to the lieisQ ol 
 EdwaM L 
 
 Gesta Komanorum. Edited by Wyx- 
 
 NAEU HOOPEE, B-A. 
 
 OiraldiiB Cambrenais^ Historical 
 
 ■Woitfl : Topt^raphy of Ireland ; History 
 of the 'Conquest of Ireland; Itinerary 
 throcgh Wales; and Description of Wales. 
 AVlth.lndei. Edited by Tkos. Wkigst. 
 H«nry of Huntingdon's History of 
 the English, fiom the Koman Invasion to 
 Henry II, ; with ttie Acta of Klag Stephen, 
 
 lagulph's Chronicle of the Abbey of 
 
 Croyland, with the Con*lnuationa by Peter 
 of Blois and other Writers- By BL T. 
 
 RiLET. 
 
 Keightley'a r«ry Mythology. Fron- 
 tispiece by Gntikthank, 
 
 Lapsius's Letters from Egypt, Ethio- 
 pia, and ibe Feninsnla of Sinai. 
 
 Kallet'a Northern Antiquities. By 
 
 Bishop Pbbct. With an Abstract of th-s 
 Eyrbiggltt Saga, by Sir Waijse Sc»3T. 
 Edited by J. A. Blaokwell. 
 Harco Polo's Travels. The IVans- 
 latiou of Marsden. Edited by TeoaiAfl 
 Whjqht. 
 Slatthew Paris's Chronicle. In 5 vols, 
 Fuunr bKUTioa : itoger ol Wendover's 
 yiowers of English History, from the 
 L'escf-ut of ibe Sasoua to A.a. 1336. 
 Ttiuislii'Tjd by Di. GUJS, In 2 vols. 
 SscosD ij-Mmo^-; From 12S6 to 1273. 
 With iniiriK to tlie entire Wort. Id 
 3 vols. 
 Matthew of "Westminster's riowers 
 of History, especially sach as relate to the 
 affairs of firitam ; to k.d. 13o7. Tranalattt) 
 
 by C. D. YONQB. lii 2 vols. 
 
 Ordericus Vitalis' Ecclesiastical His- 
 tory of England and Normandy. Trans- 
 lated with i^Iotas, by T. FoaEaTKa, K*A 
 Ju 4 vols. 
 
 Pauli's (Dr. E.) Life of Alfred the 
 Great. Translated from the German, To 
 which is appended Aifred's Anglo-Saxon 
 version of Crosius, with a literal Transla- 
 tion, and an Anglo-Saxon Grammar and 
 Glossary. 
 
 Koger De Hoveden's Annals of Eng- 
 lish History ; from a.d. 732 to aj). 1201 
 Edited by H. T. Rilet. In 2 vela. 
 
 Six Old Englieh Chronicles, vix. :— > 
 Asser'8 Life o( Alfred, and the Chronicles 
 of Etheiwerd. -.GUdas, Nennioa, Geoffrey 
 of Monmcuthy .end Blchfucd cf Clbren- 
 ceater. 
 
 WUliam ^f Malmeabnry's Chronicle 
 of the lOngs of England. Xranslated \X3 
 Shaepe. 
 
 Yule-Tide Stories. A CoUecfaon of 
 Scandinavian Talesand Traditions. ^Edited 
 by E. Thorpe. 
 
 illustrated library. 
 
 83 VoU. at 5s. each, excepting these marked oti-erwise. 
 
 £llMS'j;Battlaa of the British Tlavy. 
 Revised , end enlarged, Numcrout fim 
 ^ortrfutt. In 2 vols._ 
 
 iiflersen's Danish Legends and 
 Fairy Tales. With many Tales nottn any 
 otlier, edition. .Translated .by Cabolinx 
 PzAOHEX. 110.W<ioi.EKsramigi, 
 
 AiioBto's Orlando Ifnrioso. In Eng- 
 lish Verse. By W. S. Bass. Itoltx jiM 
 EnffraTjin^. hi 3 vols. 
 
 Sschstein's Cageand Chamber iBirdi. 
 
 ^Inclttding Sweet's Warblers. Enlarged 
 fiditinn. Nwm^fKdi pUxUi. 
 
 *.• All other editions are abridged. 
 With the plates coloured. 7ji.i6d. 
 23 
 
A CATALOQXJB kji: 
 
 Bonomi's Nineveh and its Palaces. 
 
 New Kditlon, revised and considerably 
 enlarged- both In matter and Platee. 
 'ij^xii^Td^ of 300 Engravingx. 
 
 Butler's Hudibras. With Variorum 
 Notea, a Biography, and a General Index. 
 Edited by Hekrt G. Bohk. Thirty bcaur 
 tiful lUustrations. 
 
 or, further illustrated with 
 
 C2 Outline FortraiU. In 3 vols. lOfi 
 
 Cattermole's Evenings at Haddon 
 
 IlalL 24 exquiiiti Engravings on Steel, 
 from designs by himself the l^etterpresg 
 by the Baroness De CiRABKLLA. 
 
 China, Pictorial, Descriptive, and 
 HiBtorical, TTith bome Acconnt, at Ava and 
 the BujiDese, S'l&m, and Ana.m. Ifearl^' 
 iOO Illustrations. 
 
 Crait'fl (G. L.) Pnrsidt of E^nowledge 
 
 nndar DifBcultles, illnstrate*! by Anec- 
 dotea and Memoirs. Ke\teed Edition. 
 WWi nwmeroiis Fortraits, 
 
 Crni^shank's Three Courses and a 
 Dessert. A Series of Talea, with 60 hu- 
 mcroicr XUiistratums by CruiksJumk. 
 
 Dante. Transited by I. C. Whight, 
 iil_i. ITew Eoition, carefnlly revised. 
 Portrait arid 34 IHust^rationt on Steal, 
 qfisr Ji'laaman. 
 
 Bidron's History of Cliristian Art 
 in the Middle Ages. From the French, 
 Upwards of ISC* outline Engravings. 
 
 Dyer (T. H.) The History of Pompeii ; 
 its Bnildings and Antlqnltie?. An account 
 of the City, with a fnll descripiion of the 
 RemalDS, and an Itinerary for Visitors, 
 Edited by T. H. Dtee, LLJ). Illus- 
 trated with nearly 300 Wood Engrav- 
 ings, a large Map, and a Plan of the 
 Forum,, A Isew Edition, revised and 
 broBght down to I8J4. Is. &d. 
 
 Gil Bias, The Adventures of. 24 
 
 Ehfigravingt on Steel, after Stnirke^ and 
 ' 10 EUMngs by Gforge CVmfctfcar..^. ' 6«. 
 
 Grimm'e Gammer Grethel ; or, Ger- 
 man Fairy Tales and Popalar Stories. 
 Translated by Edgab Tayjx)B. Nvunerous 
 WoodcuXa l>y Cj-wikshank. 3s. 6d. 
 
 Holbein's Dance of Death, and Bible 
 Cute. Upwards of 160 subjects, beauti- 
 fully engraved in fac-simile, with Intro- 
 duction and Descriptlona by the late 
 Francis Dodos and Dr. T. F. Dibdin, 
 S vols, in 1. IS. 6d. 
 24 
 
 Howitt's (Mary) Pictorial Calendar 
 
 of the Seasons. Embodying the whole o1 
 Alken'a Calendar of Nature, Upwards of 
 IOO Engravings. 
 
 (Mary and "WiUiam) Stories 
 
 of English and Foreign Ufe. Tvjffniy beau^ 
 tiful Engravings. 
 
 India, Pictorial, Descriptive, and 
 
 Historical, from the Elarliest Tlmee. Djy- 
 war^ls of 100 fine Engravings oil Wood, 
 and a Map. .- 
 
 Jesse's Anecdotes of Doga. New (Edi- 
 tion, with large additions. NurMrr&tjjs f^it 
 Woodcuts aftar Barvey, Beunck, and Others. 
 
 ~— ; or, with the addition if 34 
 highly-finished Steel Engravings, (li. Gd. 
 
 King's Natural History of Precious 
 
 Stones, and of the Precious Metalsi. With 
 numerous lU/ustxatvms. PrVoe 6ia: 
 
 Natural History ofj Gems 
 
 or Decorative Stones. Finely niVstrated. 
 65. ' 
 
 Handbook of Engraved Gem^. 
 
 Finely Illustrated. 6s. j 
 
 Kitto's Scripture Lands and Biblical 
 Atlas. 24 Ataps, beautifully fjn'jraved on 
 Steel, with a Consulting ZndezL 
 
 ; with the maps coloured ^ 7s. 60. 
 
 Krummacher*8 Parables. Translated 
 fr«m the German. Forty Uhistrations 6v 
 Clayton^ engraved by Dalziel. 
 
 Lindsay's (Lord) Letters on Egypt, 
 
 E'iom, ard the Holy Land. Kew Edition, 
 enlarged. Thirty-six beautif2d Engrav- 
 ings, and 2 Maps. 
 
 Lodge's Portraits of IHustrlouB Per- 
 sonages of Great Britain, with Memoirs. 
 Two Eundred\ and Forty Portraits, en-- 
 graved on Steel. _^8 vola 
 
 Longfellow's Poetical Works. 
 Ttfxnty-four page Engravings, by BirTcet 
 Foster and others, and a Portrait. 
 
 ; or J without illustrationSjZs.&d. 
 
 Prose Works. 16 pa^je En~ 
 
 graviTifpi by Birket Foster^ i-c. 
 
 Loudon's (Hirs.) Entertaining Bfatur- 
 allsl. Revised by VT. S. Dallas, FXlS. 
 WiVi nearly 600 Woodcuts. 
 
 ^arryat'e Masterman Beady; or, 
 The Wreck of the Pacific 93 Woodcuts. 
 3s. Bd. 
 
 Poor Jack. With 16 lUut, 
 
 trations, after Designs by C. Stanfi^ld 
 R.A. 35. ed. 
 
 Kisaion; or. Scenes in At 
 
 rica, ^Written for Young People.) TUtts 
 trated by Gilbert and DalsieL 3s. Sd. 
 
BONN'S VJMIOUS LIBRARIES, 
 
 Marryat'a Pirate ; and Three Cutters. 
 £fow Edition, with a Memoir of the 
 Author. With 8 Steel Enffravings, from 
 2>rawingt by G. Sta/nfidd, R.A. 3*. 6d- 
 
 Privateers-Man One Hun- 
 dred Years Ago. Eiglvt Bngravings on 
 Ste>!l, after StoVuxrd. 35. €d. 
 
 Settlers in Canada. New 
 
 Kdltlon. Ten fine Engravings by QiXbcrt 
 and Dalsiel. 3s. 6d. • 
 
 iL^azwell's Victories of Wellington 
 
 t'lid the Britlah Anuieti. Sted Engravings. 
 
 Kl.chael Angelo and Eaphael, their 
 L ives_ and Works. By Duppa ocd QtjA- 
 'iR EMKEE DE QuiNOT. WUh 13 Engravings 
 on 'StxeL 
 
 Mill'.^r's History of the Anglo-Sax- 
 
 OEB. Written In a popular style, on the 
 basis o' Sharon Turner. Portrait of 
 Alfred, JHap of Saxon Britain, and 13 
 elabarat^ Engravings on SteeL 
 Hilton's Poetical "Works. With a 
 Memt|ir by James Mont<wmeet, Todd's 
 Verbiti Index to all the Poems, and Es- 
 planatlpry Notfri. With 120 Engramngt 
 by Tkaenpson and others, frojti Dravnngs 
 by W. sarvey. 2 vols. 
 
 Vol. I. Paradise Lost, complete with 
 
 Meinoir, Notes, and Index. 
 VoL 2. Pai^se Regained, and other 
 Poemfi, with Verbal ladei to all the 
 Poems. 
 Mudie's British Birds. Kevised by 
 W. C. K Mabttn. Fifty-two Figure* on^S 
 V FJatei of Eggs. In 2 vols. 
 — — ; or, with the phtes coloured, 
 
 7i. 6d. per voL 
 Naval and Military Heroes of Great 
 Britain ; or. Calendar of Vlctoiy. Being a 
 Record of British Valour and Conquest 
 by Sea and I^d, on every day in the 
 year, from the time of William the 
 Conqueror to the Battle of Inkermann. 
 By Al^or Johns, K.M., and Lieutenant 
 P. H. NiooLAfl, RJVl, Twcnty-fmsr Fcr- 
 traitt. 6s. 
 Nicolini's History of the Jesuits : 
 their CMgln, Pn^reea, EJoctrlnes, and De^ 
 Blgns. Fine Fortraits of Loyola, Lainii, 
 Xavier^ Borgia, Acquaviva, P&re la,Chaise, 
 and Pope OanganeSli, 
 Petrarch^s Sonnets, and other Poems. 
 Translated into EngllBh Verse. By various 
 handa With a Life of the Poet, by 
 Thohas Campbell. Witk 16 Engravingi. 
 Pickering's Bostory of the Eaces of 
 Man, with an Analytical Synopsis of the 
 Katnral History of Man. By Dr. Haix. 
 JUtutrated by nieinerotts Fortraitz. 
 
 ; or^wjM thep latei cohvred^ 7s.6d, 
 •^* An excellent Edition of a work ori- 
 ginally published at 3Z. 3f. by the 
 American Government. ' ' ^' - 
 
 Pictorial Handbook of Modem Geo- 
 graphy, on a Popular Plan. 3«. 6dL Illus- 
 trated by 160 Engrotvingt and 61 Mdpi. 6i. 
 
 ; or, with the maps coUmred, 
 
 Tg.6<J. ' 
 
 Pope's Poetical Works. Edited by 
 BoBEBT Cabruthsrs. Ifumerout En- 
 gravingt. 3 vols. 
 
 — Homer's Iliad. With Intro- 
 duction and Notea by J. S. Watson, M.A, 
 Illustrated by tKe entire Series of Fiaia- 
 man's Designs, beanUifuU^ engraved bjf 
 Moses (in the/tdl 8vo. site), 
 
 — — Homer's Odyssey, Hymns, 
 fee, by other translators, incladlng Chap- 
 man, and Introduction and Notes by J. S. 
 Watson, M.A.. FUmmcvn'g Designs beau- 
 tifully ernrraved by Mosey. 
 
 Ijie. Including many of his 
 
 Letters. By Bobebt Ca&bdthxbs. New 
 
 Edltlon.revised and enlarged. lilustraHom. 
 
 The preceding 6 vou. make a complete 
 
 and elegant edition of Fop^s Poetical 
 
 WorJa and Translations for 254. 
 
 Pottery and Porcelain, and other Oh- 
 
 jocta of Vertu (a Guide to the Knowledge 
 of). To which is added an Engraved Lis! 
 of Marks and Monograms. By Hehbt 
 G. BoHH. Ifumervus Engravings. 
 
 ■ ; or, coloured. 10s. 6d. 
 
 Prout's (Father) Eeliques. New 
 Edition, revised and largely augmented. 
 Tioeniy-one ^rited Etchings by JKacItM. 
 Two volumes in one. Is. 6d. 
 
 Kecreationa in Shooting. By 
 "Cbavkn." New Edition, revised and 
 eailarged. 62 Eiigravings on Wood^ after 
 Earvey, and 9 Engravings on Steel, chiefly 
 aftsr A. Cooper, R~A. 
 
 bedding's History and Descriptions 
 
 of Wines, Ancient and Modem, Twenty 
 beautifvi Woodcuts. 
 
 Kennie's Insect Architecture. ifeu> 
 EdUion. Revised by the Rev. J. G. 
 Wood, MA. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe. With lUustrations 
 ty Stothaed and Habvey. Twelve beauO' 
 f'jl Engremngs on Steel, and 74 on Wood. 
 
 ; or, without the Steel illustra- 
 tions, 3c. 6d, 
 
 Eome in the Kineteenth Century. 
 New Edition. Revised by the Author. 
 Illustrated by Si Steel . Engravings 
 2 vols. 
 
 Eharpe's History of Egypt, from the 
 Earliest Times tiU. the Conquest by the 
 Arabs, a.d. 640. By Samuel Shabpe. 
 With 2 Maps and upwards of 400 Illus- 
 trative Woodcuts. Sixth and Cheaper 
 Edition. 2 vols. 
 
 Southey's Life of Kelson.'! With 
 Additional Notes. Illustrated with 64 
 Engravings. ~ 
 
A OATALOGVE 
 
 ScarUng^s (Miss) Noble Deed;i of 
 Women ; or, Exampl«fl of female Coniai^s, 
 Fortitude, and Virtue. Jp{mrtMn IBnistra- 
 tions. 
 
 Stuart and Kevett's Antiquities of 
 Athena, and other Monurapiiira of Greece. 
 lUnutratcd, in 71 Steel Plat'Zi, fsnd Ky- 
 mftroui Woodcutt. 
 
 Tales of the Genii ; or, tho Dollglitf iiI 
 
 Leasoue of Horam. Jfumerovis Woodcuiz, 
 4nd 8 Steel Srtffravinas.tufter Stcthard, 
 
 Xasso'a Jerusalem Delivered, Traui- 
 Iftted Into English Speuserlao "Verse, wltb 
 a Life of the Author. By J. H. Wiffee. 
 Sight Ewjravings <m StaH, and 2A cr. 
 Wcod^ hy 19iursion. 
 
 Waiker'E Manly Exercises. Con- 
 taining Skating, Ridiag, J^riVuxg, Huntlns 
 Shooting, Sailing, Rowhi(j, SwiniTiilng, fic. 
 New Edition, revised by " Ckavk;:.' 
 yorty-foier Steel Plates, a*zd numtrpta 
 Woodcut*. 
 
 Walton'a Complete Angler. Edited 
 by Edwaud Jksse, Esq. Upu-ardj of 
 
 ■ ; or, vnth 26 additional ptzgi 
 
 Illustrations on Stret, 7», 6d. 
 
 Wellington, Life of. From the ma- 
 
 termln of MiixweU JfOgJUeen, JCno-favirgs 
 
 Westropp's Handbook of Archaeology 
 Xe'v Kilition, reviiMid. Numerous lilt is- 
 tiutiovs. Is. Gd. 
 
 White's Natural History of 6el- 
 torce. With Noted by Sir WiLUAii Jaa- 
 DiSK and Edwaed Jesss, Esq. Tlinstratfd 
 
 -_ — • or, loith tUs p'ates coloured 
 
 "is. 6tZ. 
 
 Young, The, Lady's Book. A Ma- 
 nual of Elegant Kocreationa. Arta, iJciencef , 
 and Accomplishm(;ata. Twclv JSundrtd 
 Uoodcut fUustratvuTis, and KwroZ ^r.- 
 i/ravi7ios on Stefei. Is. Bel. 
 
 i oTj cloth ailfj gilt edg'^i. Qs. 
 
 i 
 
 CLASSICAL LIBRARY. 
 
 93 Vols, at -^s. eadi,~ excepting those tt^arked <rthmc%si. 
 
 JSaehylos. Literally Transbited into 
 English Prose by an Oxonian. 35. M. 
 
 Appendix to. Containing 
 
 -±he iReadings given -in -HeiTRaim'f posthu- 
 znouB Edition of .Sschylua. By Gsobok 
 BixaOES, M.A. 3J. 6d. 
 
 &mmianu£ MarceUiniui. SDstory of 
 'Berne from Constantiua to Valeira. Ttods- 
 IstedbyCD.yoiTGB.BA. ^&ble. w>L.7s. 6d. 
 
 Antoninus. The Thoughts of the 
 
 Emperor Marcus Aurellus. Translated by 
 Geo. Long. M.A. 34. fid. 
 
 Apuleiofl, the Golden Aas ; Death of 
 
 Socrates; Florida; and Discourse oa Ms^c 
 
 ,To iwhich is guided la ^etrlnal Vdr^on of 
 
 Cnpid ftnd Psyche; ftnd Mra. Xlghe'c 
 
 ..E^ycbe. ^f^onti^neoe. 
 
 Aristophanes' 'Comedies. Literally 
 
 ■Tranalated, with Notes and Ebrtracte Iroca 
 
 Frere's and other Metrical Versions, by 
 
 iW^J.iHiCKis. .2 Tola. 
 
 -<YaL 1. ! A nhnynlftTtH. -Knight^ jOhrads, 
 
 ^asps, JPeaoe, and Birds. 
 TYi^ 2. . L^jrsistrata, {Chramophoriazusae, 
 : frogs, £ctieslaxDsaa,*«Ddflntiia. 
 
 Aristotle's Ethics. Literally 'Trans- 
 ' lated by Archdeacon Sbowite, lateOasslcal 
 - Professor Of King's College. 
 
 26 
 
 AristotIe*8 Politics and Economics. 
 
 Translated by E. WALFoao, M.A. 
 
 • metaphysics. Literally Trans- 
 
 lated, with Notes, Analysis, ExsouinBt^cQ 
 Questions, and Index, by the Rev. Jobs 
 H. M*Mahoh. M.A^ and Gold Medallist in 
 Metaphysics, T.OD. 
 
 - History of Animals. In Ten 
 
 Bookfi. Translated, with Notes and Index, 
 by £JCCHABD C&E3SWEIX, M A^ 
 
 ■ Organon ; or. Logical Trea- 
 
 tisefi. With Notes. Ac By 0. F. Owes.MA- 
 2 vols.. 3i. 6(2. ^ach. 
 
 Ehetoric and Poetics. Lite- 
 
 rally Translated, with Examination Qces- 
 tlons and Notes, by an Oxonian. 
 
 Athenaeufi. The DeipnosophisU; ^or, 
 the^anqnet of the Learned. TraasTaed 
 by .a D, XoNaK, B.A. 3 vole. 
 
 Cessar. Complete, with the Alexan- 
 drian, African, and Spanish Viass, .ILite- 
 'rally JVan&lated.'wlth Notea. 
 
 Catullus, Tihullus, and the Tigil of 
 
 Yencs. A Literal Prose Translation. To 
 which are added Metrical VeiHions by 
 IiAUB, GsAiHGBK, and others, ffrontif- 
 
 pieci. 
 
BOSN'S VARIOUS LI BE ABIES. 
 
 CiC9ro*s Orations. Litei-aiiy Trans- 
 lated by C. D. YoKGK, B.A. In 4 vola. 
 
 Vol. 1. ContaiDB the Oratiosa agalne^i 
 Vorrea, &a Fortnsit. 
 
 VoL 2. CatUlne. Archlas, Agiarlan 
 Law, Rablrlus, MnreiJa, Sylla, Sic. 
 
 Vol. 3. Orations for his Hoiise, Planclnij, 
 Seitlna, CcsUua, Milo, Llgarins, 5:c. 
 
 VoL 4. MiscelianeoTiB Orations, and 
 Rhetorical Works ; with General In- 
 dex to the four volnmee. 
 
 on the Nature of tie Gods, 
 
 "^Dlv5 nation. Fate, Jja-we. a Republic, <tc 
 TraD-elated by C. J>. Yoi-QF, B.A., aitd 
 F. B.asHAM. 
 
 « AcademicB, De Finibna, and 
 
 TosCTulan QueatiDnH. By C. D. Yosg£, 
 SJ^ ■ With Sketch of the Oreet Philo- 
 Eopher. 
 
 Offlces, Old Ag3, friendship, 
 
 Sclplo'a Bream, Pariidoses. &c. Ltt«ra!i* 
 TrHiBlBteu. by P.. :H;i>Ko-:i>e Jt--Qd. 
 
 ■ on Oratory and Orators. By 
 
 J. S.-WJ1T80N, M.A. 
 
 DemoBthWes' Orations, Traaslatod. 
 with Notfes, by G JEiAiirs 'KssTKCsy. la fi 
 voliimea. 
 Vol. ^. The Olynthlttc, yhiliKrta, aid 
 
 other -Public Orations. 3x. 6d. 
 ToL 2. On the Crawu and on the Hie. - 
 
 baesy. 
 7ol. 3. AgaiiLBt LspUfiec, MldlaB, An- 
 
 drotrlon, and Aristocrates. 
 VoL 4. Private and other Oratloca. 
 VoL 6. Miscellaneous Orations. 
 Dictionary of Latin Qnotations. In- 
 eluding Proverbs, Maxims, Mottoes, Law 
 Terms, and Phrases ; and a Collection ol 
 above 600 Greek Quotations. '"With all Jiie 
 quantities marked, & English Translations. 
 
 , with Indez VerbomnL ^t. 
 
 Index Verbomm only, .li 
 Diogenes LaertiUfl. Lives and Opin- 
 ions of the AncienfPhilosopbeTa. Trans- 
 lated, witii Notes, by CD. Yonoi. 
 Epictetni. Discourses, with Enchei- 
 Tidion-and Tr^ments. Translated with 
 Notes,' by Geobge Long, W.'A. 
 
 Euripides. Literally Translated. 2Tbi8. 
 VoLl.'-Hecuba.'OTOBtea, Medea, Hippo- 
 -lytuB, '-Aloeetls, Baodua, Heracllds, 
 Iphigenia in Aalide^'andTphlgenlaiB 
 _ ,; -.Taails. , . ... 
 
 l'~^6l. 2. Percales .FGrens,^Troade&,-Jon 
 Andromache, So^^iiUantfi, ^tiien, 
 Electra, Ctydopa, 'Rhesus. 
 Greek Anthdlogy. literally .Trans- 
 lated, With Metrical TeisionB,by varlow 
 
 ^Aathore.- - -■ .- - 
 
 1' Eomances df 'Heliodoras, 
 
 Longos, imd Achillea Tatius. 
 
 Herodotns. A New and Literal 
 Translation, by HKrer Cast, M-A., of 
 
 Worcester College, Oxford. 
 
 Heaiod, Cailimachns, and Theognia. 
 Literally Trauslated, with Notes, by J. 
 3A^^B;:5. M.A- 
 
 Homer'B Iliad. .i.tt^raOj' Tmoslatcci. 
 
 Odyasey, Hymna, &c. Lite- 
 rally Translated. 
 
 Horace. Literally Translated, by 
 Smaet. Carcftilly revised by an Oxohtah, 
 3s. -Od. 
 
 Justin, ComeUuB Hepos, and Eutro- 
 pius. Literally Translated, with Notes 
 and ladex, by J. B. Watsch, M.a. 
 
 Juvenal, Persius, Sulpicia, and Lu- 
 
 ciliuE. By L. Evase. M.A. Witli the 
 Metrical Version by SiSbrd. Frontispiece 
 
 Livy. A new and literal Translation, 
 By Dr. Spillaw and others. In 4 vajs. 
 Vci. 1. CoGtalsB Books 1—8. 
 Vol. i Books e — 26, 
 VoL 3. Books 27— 3S. 
 '^ril. -4. flooka SV to tbe tud ; and Indox, 
 
 Lucan'a Pharsalia. Translated, with 
 Notee. hy H. T. Bjlsy. 
 
 Lncretins. Literally Translated, with 
 Notes, .by the Rev. J. S. Watboh, M.A. 
 And the Metrical Version by J. M. Good. 
 
 Martial's Epigrams, complete. Lite- 
 Tally "Tranalated. Ea<±i accompanied by 
 <aie or more Verso Translations selected 
 flt)m the Works of English Poets, and 
 other eonrces. With a copious Index. 
 Double volume (660 pages). It. 6d. 
 
 Ovid^B Works, complete. Literally 
 Translated. 3 vols. 
 VoL 1. Fasti, Tristla,TEpl8tlea, Ate.- 
 VoL 2. Metamorphoses. 
 ToL S. Nereides. Ait of Love, Ac, 
 
 Pindar. Literally Translated, iy Daw- 
 -eos W.-TDBKsa, «nd the Medical Veisloa 
 .by Afb*"*^ Moobs., 
 
 Plato's Works. Translated by the 
 
 .'Bev.-H.CAKr.Biid others. Injit vols. 
 
 fV<d. L The Apology *f fiocrates, Crlto 
 
 Phffldo.-Gorgias, ProtagorQs,)Ph»dnu, 
 
 Toesetetufi. Euthyphroo. Ly^s. • 
 
 VoL ^ The Bepu blic; XinuBDS, (& Critiea. 
 
 . oVoLvS. Meno, ^^utt^ydemnfl.The Sc- 
 
 , yjfhist. Stateonan, - Cra^lua, Panne- 
 
 cideal-and the^Bimquet. 
 :JKhL 4. JMlcbQB, Charmldtfl, Lachei, 
 ' The"-.Two AlrfWadea,««ntt Ten otber 
 
 Dlalogaes. 
 TdL3. TheLawft. 
 
 Vol' 6. The Doubtful Works. With 
 General Index. 
 
 21 
 
A CATALOGUE OF 
 
 Plato's Dialogues, an Analysis and 
 Index to. With Rererences to thoTranB- 
 lation in Bohn'a Classical library. By Dr. 
 Day. 
 
 Plaatua's Comedios. Litej-aUy Trans- 
 lated, wiUi Notes, by H. T. Rilex, B.A. 
 In 2 vole. 
 
 Pliny's Natural History, Translated, 
 wltb Coplocs Xotaa, by the late Johh 
 Boa-rocE, M.D., FJtii., and H. T. Silet, 
 B^. In 6 vols. 
 
 Pliny the Younger, The Letters of. 
 Meluoth's Translation revised. By the 
 Kev. F. C. T. BosANQOET, M.A. 
 
 Propertius, Petronius, and Johannee 
 
 Secondne, and Aristenaetus. Literally 
 Translated, and acainipanied by Poetical 
 Veraiocfl. from varions sourcea. 
 
 Quintilian's Institutes of Oratory. 
 Literally Translated, with Notes, &c^ by 
 J. S- Watson, M A . In 2 voIe. 
 
 Salluflt, FloruB, and Velleius Pater- 
 
 culufl. With Copious Notes, Bic^raphical 
 Notlcea, and Index, by J. S._Watson. 
 
 Sophocles. The Oxford Translation 
 revised. 
 
 Standard Library Atlas of Classical 
 
 Gr«ography. Twenty-ivx) large coloured 
 Maps according to tke. latest authoritia. 
 With a oompleta Index (accentnated), 
 giving the latitude and longitude of every 
 place named In the Maps. Imp.8vo. It.Gd. 
 
 Strabo'B Geography. Translated, 
 ■with Coplona Notes, by W. Faxconxb, 
 M.A., and It C. Hamilton. Esq. With 
 Index, giving the Ancient and Modem 
 Narnca. In 3 vols. 
 
 Suetonius' Lives of the Twelve 
 
 Cffisars, and other Works. Thomaon'r 
 Translation, revised, with Notes, by 7, 
 
 FOBEOTEB. 
 
 Tacitus. Literally Translated, -^vitl; 
 Notes. In 2 vols. 
 
 Vol. 1. The AnnalE. ; 
 
 Vol. 3. The History, Gfermanln,t Agri- 
 cola, &c. With Index, / 
 
 Terence and Fhaedrus. By M. T, 
 Ku-ET. B.A. 
 
 Theocritus, Sion, Moschus, and 
 Tyrtfieua. By J. Bajjks, M^ With the 
 Metrical Versions of Chapman, 
 
 Thucydidee. Literally Tranf Jated by 
 Rev. H. Daul In 2 vols. 3*. <3d. each. 
 
 VirgiL Literally Translated ^ by Da- 
 
 vmsoN. New Edition, carefolly reTlsed. 
 3s. ed. r 
 
 Xenophon's ■Works, In 3 Fols, 
 
 VoL 1. The Anabasis and Memorabilia. 
 Translated, with Notes, by J. S. Wat- 
 GOK. MjV.. And a Geographical Com- 
 mentary, by W. F. AiNSWOBiH, F.SJL. , 
 F.K.G.S-, &c 
 VoL 2. Gyropffidla and Hellenics. By 
 J. S. Watson, MJu, and the Rev. H. 
 Dalk. 
 VoL 3. The Minor Works. By J. a 
 Watson, M.A. 
 
 SCIENTIFIC LIBRARY. 
 
 59 Fob. at 5s. each, ixcepHnu fkote marktd oOiarwite. 
 
 igaasiz and Gould's Comparative 
 i^hyslologv. Enlarged by Dr. WaiaHT. 
 Upvjtvrds 0^400 Srtffrauinfft. 
 
 Bacon'i Kovtuu Organnm and Ad- 
 vancemeat of LeamlDg. Complete, with 
 Notes, by J. Devey, M.A._ 
 
 Bolley's ffiannal of Technical Analy- 
 sis. A Guide for the Testing of Natural 
 and Artificial Snbetances. By B. H. Paul. 
 100 Wood Srtffravin^s. 
 
 BBIDGEWATER TEEATISES. — 
 
 Bell on the Hand, Its Mecha- 
 nism and Vital Endowments as evincing 
 Design. Snenth Edition Revited, 
 
 ' Kirby on the History, Habits, 
 
 and Instincts of Animals. Edited, with 
 Notes, by T. Rtmee Jokes, Numerous 
 BnjiramTift,meayofKhich are additional. 
 In 3 Tola. 
 28 
 
 BEIDGEWATEE TREATISES— ami. 
 
 Kidd on the Adaptation of 
 
 External Natnre to the Physical Condition 
 of Man. 3t. id. 
 
 Whewell's Astronomy and 
 
 General Physics, considered "with refer- 
 ence to Natural Theology. J». 6d. 
 
 Chalmers on the Adaptation 
 
 of External Nature to the Moral and In- 
 tellectual Constitution of Man. ~ 
 
 Front's Treatise on Chemis- 
 try, Meteorology, and Digestion. Edited 
 by Dr. J. W. GniFFrrH. 
 
 Bnckland's Geology and 
 
 Mineralogy. 2 Tola. 16«. 
 ' £oget*s Animal and Vege- 
 table Physiology. Illustrated. In 2 vols. 
 6*. each. 
 
BOJSN'S VABIOUS LIBRABIE8. 
 
 Carpenter's (Dr. W. K) Zoologry. A 
 
 Systematic View of the Stmctnre, Habits, 
 instlncta. and Uses, of the principal Fami- 
 lies of the Animal Kingdom, and of the 
 chief forma of Fossil Remains. RevlBed 
 by W. a Dallas, ?JLS. Illustrated vHth 
 many Itundred Wood Enffravingt. In 
 2 TolB. 6«. each. 
 
 Mechanical Philosophy, As- 
 
 u*ronomy, and Horology. A Popular Ex- 
 pu'sitlon. 183 lUustraiicmi. 
 
 — Vegetable Physiologry and 
 
 Syati^matic Botany. A complete Intro- 
 ducU^-on to the Knowledge of Plants. 
 Revis ed, mider arrangement with the 
 Antb'.or, by E. Lakkesteb, M.D., &c. 
 Scxio-Mhttindred UVustrations <m Woodn 6i. 
 
 '- Animal Physiology. In part 
 
 re-wri^tten by the Anthor. Upvyardi of 
 300 caipitaL lUiLstrations. 65. 
 
 ChevreTil on Colonr. Containing the 
 Prindplea of Harmony and Contract of 
 Colonnt and their application to the Arts. 
 Translated from the French by Chaelles 
 MAJKTKiL Only complete Edition. Several 
 Plates. ^Or, with an additional series of 
 16Platea(inColoara. U. 6d. 
 
 Ennemoser'fl History of Magic. 
 
 Translated by William Howht. With 
 an Appendix of the most remarkable and 
 beat authenticated Storlea of Apparifelona, 
 Dreams, Table-Tumlng, and ^IritrRap- 
 ping, &C. In 2 volB. 
 
 Hog^s (Jabez) Elements of Experi- 
 mental and Uatnral Philosophy. Con- 
 taining Mechanics, Pneumatics, Hydro- 
 statics, HydranMcs, Acoustics, Optics, 
 Oaloiic, Electricity, VoltalBm, and Mag- 
 netism. New Edition, enlarged. Up- 
 vtardt of 400 Woodcutt. 
 
 Hind's Introdnction to Astronomy. 
 With a Vocabulary, containing an Expla- 
 nation of all the Terms In present use. 
 New Edition^ enlarged. Nitmeroui En- 
 ^rravingt. 3i. 6d. 
 
 Hiunholdt'a Coemos; or, fiketch of a 
 Ffa^cal Description of the ITnlTerse. 
 Translated ly E. C. Orrfi ind W. S. 
 Dallas, FX.S. Pine Portrait In five 
 vols. 3*. 6d. each ; excepting VoL V., Bf. 
 •,* In this edition the notes are placed 
 beneath the text. Humboldt's analytical 
 Smnmaiies and the passages Mtherto sup- 
 pressed axe included, and new and com* 
 
 ■ prehensive Indices are added- 
 
 '■ — Travels in America, In 3 vols. 
 
 ■Views of Natore ; or, Con- 
 
 . templatlons of the Sublime Phenomena of 
 Creation. Translated by E. G. OxTti and 
 EL G. BoHN. With a complete Index. 
 
 Hunt's (Robert) Poetry of Science; 
 or. Studies of the Physical Phenomena ol 
 Nature. By Professor Huht. New Edi- 
 tion, enlarged. 
 
 Joyce's Scientific Dialogues. By 
 
 Dr. Geiffith. Nvmicrout WoodetUt, 
 
 ■ Introduction to. the Arts and 
 
 Sciences. With Examination Questioni, 
 Zt.Qd. 
 
 Knight's (Chas.) Knowledge is Power. 
 A Popular Manual of Political Economy. 
 
 Lectures on Painting, By the Royal 
 
 Academicians. With Introductory Essay, 
 and Notes by R. Wobnum, Esq. Portroatt. 
 
 Lawrence's Lectures on Compara- 
 tive Anatomy, Physiology, Zoology, and the 
 
 Natural History of Man. lUMStrated. 
 
 Lilly's Introduction to Astrology. 
 
 With numerous Emendations, by Zadsiei. 
 
 Mantell's (Br.) Geological Excur- 
 sions through the Isle of Wight and Dor- 
 Botshire. New Edition, by T. Rupert 
 Jones, Esq. Nvmierout heavMfully cee- 
 cuted Woodcuts, avd a Oeolofficai Map. 
 
 *— — Medals of Creation ; or, 
 
 First Lessons In Geology" and the Study 
 of Orgame Remains; Including Geolt^ciS 
 ExcuiHlons. New Edition, revised. Gh 
 lovred Plates, and several hundred beau- 
 iiftil Woodcuts. In 3 vols., Is. 6cL eadu 
 
 Petrifactions and their 
 
 Teachings. An Illustrated Handbook to 
 the Organic Remains in the British Mu- 
 seum. Numerotts Bnffravings. 6(. 
 
 Wonders of Geology ; or, a 
 
 Familiar Exposition of Oeolo^cal ^e- 
 nomena. New Edition, augmented by T, 
 RupEET Jones, F.G.S. Coloured Geological 
 Map of BnglaTid, Plates, and nearly 200 
 beauUfvl Woodciett. In2voIs.,7f.6d.each. 
 
 Morphy's Games of Chess. Being 
 the Matches and best Games played by 
 the American Champion, wilj] Explana- 
 tory and Analytical Notes, by J. Lowes- 
 THAI,. Portrait and Memoir. 
 
 It contains by far the largest collection 
 of games played by Mr. Morphy extant in 
 any form, and has received his endorse- 
 ment fuid co-operation. 
 
 Richardson's Geology, including 
 Mineralogy and Palaiontology. Revised 
 and enlarged, by Dr. T. Wbighi. Uptwxrdi 
 of ^M HJwtraiioTU, 
 
 Schouw's Earth, Plants, and Man ; and 
 Kobell's Sketches from the Mineral King- 
 dom. Translated by A. Henfeet, F.R.S. 
 
 Colovred Map of the Geoffraphy of Plants, 
 29 
 
A CATALOGUE 
 
 Smith's (Pye) Geology and Scrip- 
 tire; or, The Relation between the Holy 
 Scripturea and G«ologlcal Scienoo. 
 
 Stanley's Classified Synopsis of the 
 Principal: Palnteni of the Dutch and Fl£^ 
 misii Schools. 
 
 Staunton's Chess-player's Handboot. 
 
 ,- JfuTiKTous Biagrarti^. 
 
 Chess Praxis. A Supplecaent 
 
 to the Cheas-player's Handbook, CoK- 
 
 tainlBg all the inost important modero 
 Improvements in the Openings, lllnatrated 
 by actuiJ Gaines ; a revised Code of Chess 
 Laws; and a Selection of Mr, Morphy'e- 
 Qamea in England and France. 6s, 
 
 —— Chess-player's Companion, 
 Comprising a new Treatise on Odds, Col- 
 lection of Match (iames. and a Solectica 
 of Original Problems. 
 
 Staunton's Chess Tottmament of 
 
 1851. Nv/mcrotu MttstratiOTU. 
 
 Stockhardt's Principles of Chemistry, 
 
 exemplified In a Beries of simple experi- 
 ments. Based upon the German work of 
 Profeasor Stockhaedt, and Eidlted by C. 
 W. Heaton, Profea-^r of Chemistry at 
 Charing Cros; Hospitai. £7putards of 27 
 lUutiraMoTis. 
 
 TTre's (Dr. K.) Cotton lffanufact:ure 
 of Great Britain, systematically inj,'est!- 
 gated ; with an Introdnctoiy view of Its 
 comparative state Id Foreign Countries. 
 New Edition, revised by P. L, SiAmokds. 
 Om hiLndred and fifty Jlkistratvo 
 3 vols. 
 
 Philosophy of MannfafAnrcs ; 
 
 or. An Exposition of the Factory) Systeic 
 of Great Briuin. Cjntinnod b^ P. h. 
 StMHOKoa Is. Go. 
 
 Blair's Chronological Tables, Eeirised 
 
 and Enlarged. Comprehending the Chro- 
 nology and History of the World, fron> 
 the earliast thajes. By J. WiLLODQHtT 
 Bosss. Donbla Volume. Ifls.; cr, fciU - 
 bound, 1 OS. fid. 
 
 Clark*B (Hngh) Introductioa to 
 
 Heraldry. WiUi nearly 1 000 Ittustratumj. 
 ISth Edition. Revised and enlarged by J, R. 
 ft^AjTCHfi, Rouge Croix. 5s. Or, with all 
 the niustrations coloured, 15s. 
 
 Chroniclea of the Tombs, ^ A Collec- 
 tion of Remarkable Epitaplsr. By T. J. 
 
 ■ PsariGBEW, F JLS., F£.A. 5s. ; 
 
 Handbook of Domestic MedicmO;- Pc- 
 
 puiarly arranged. By Dr. HkketDavies. 
 TOO pages. With complete Judex. 6s. 
 
 ■■ Games. ■; By various Amateurs 
 
 and. Professors. Gomprielng treatises 
 
 en all the principal Games -of chance^ 
 
 BklU, and manual dexterity. ■- In-- all« 
 
 above 40 games, (the Whist, l!>rsught3^ 
 
 . and Billiards being eapedaUy comprehen- 
 
 . Bive). Edited by H. G. Bohh- IUus- 
 
 ^ iraieS hyrmmeroux Diofframt. \ £x. . 
 
 • Proverbs.' Comprismg^ all 
 
 ' Ray's English Proverbs, with additions; 
 his Fo-el(pi ProTorbs ; and an Alphabetical 
 Indez. 5j. ' r, : , 
 
 Humphrey's Coin Collector's Ma- 
 nnaL- - A- popular Introductioii to the 
 
 ■ Study of Coins. Biglilyfirsi^iea'Sngrav- 
 ingi. '■ In 2 vols, - IGs. 
 
 ■30' 
 
 REFERENCE LIBRARY, 
 
 23 Yols, at various prices. 
 
 Index of Dates. CompreheAding the 
 principal Facte in the Chroiitlegy and 
 History of the World, from &e earliest 
 time, alchdbetically arranged. . By J. W. 
 Ro^iL ' Double volume, 103. ; or, haU- 
 bound, lOx. 6d. 
 Lowndds' Bibliographer' s TffR.Tinal of 
 
 English literature. New Edition, en- 
 larged, by B.. Q. Boss. Parts L to X. (A 
 to Z). 3r. 6i each- Part XL (the Ap- 
 pendix Volume). Ss. Or the 11 parts in 
 4 vols., half morocco, 2£. 2s. ... 
 
 Polyglot of Foreign Proverbs. With 
 English Translations, and a General Index 
 bringlng^the whole- into panJlels, tjy-H, G. 
 BOHK. 5s. ■ ' ■ \ ■ 
 
 Political Cyclopaedia. In 4 vols, 
 
 3s.-.6d..-6acfa. ■"■ :Z'~ i'^:^..- 
 Also in 2 vols, bomid. ^ 15a, 
 
 Smith*s (Archdeacon) Completa Col- 
 lection of Synonyms and AQtonyma..,.C5. 
 The Epigrammatists. Selections £rom 
 
 the Epigrammatic Literature of Aiiclent, 
 Mediffival, and Modem Times. ' With 
 Notes, Observations, Illustrations; and an 
 Introduction, By the Eev. Heney Philip 
 ' DoDD, MA., of Pembroke College, Oxford. 
 Second^EdltioD, revised and considerably 
 enlargai ; containtng many new Epigrams, 
 principally of an amuEdng character. Gs. 
 T^eeler's (W, A., Iff, A.) Dictionary 
 of Noted Names of Ficlltloufi PeiiBons and 
 Places. Ss. -i^- . -c; . ' .- i 
 
 Wright's (T.) Dictionary oTObsolete 
 and Provincial English. InS vols. ' Ss. 
 each ; or half-bound ini tqL, 10iJ6(I.