No More Learning

That is also all I claim, in stating that the essential character
of the literature of Germany is, that it is philosophical. The
philosophers there are poets, and the poets are philosophers.
Goethe is to be found no more, or no less, in his Theory of
Colors' or in his Metamorphosis of Plants,' than in his “Divan'
or his Faust'; and lyrism, if I may use this trite expression,
is overflowing” in Schleiermacher's theology and in Schelling's
philosophy. Is this not perhaps at least one of the reasons of
the inferiority of the German drama ? It is surely the reason
of the depth and scope of Germanic poetry. Even in the mas-
terpieces of German literature it seems that there is mixed some-
thing indistinct, or rather mysterious, suggestive in the extreme,
which leads us to thought by the channel of the dream. But
who has not been struck by what, under a barbarous termi-
nology, there is of attractive, and as such of eminently poetical,
of realistic and at the same time idealistic, in the great systems
of Kant and Fichte, Hegel and Schopenhauer ? Assuredly noth-
ing is further removed from the character of our French litera-
ture. We can here understand what the Germans mean when
they charge us with a lack of depth. Let them forgive us if we
do not blame their literature for not being the same as ours.
For it is good that it be thus, and for five or six hundred
years this it is that has made the greatness not only of European
literature, but of Western civilization itself; I mean that which
all the great nations, after slowly elaborating it, as it were, in


## p. 2612 (#172) ###########################################

2612
FERDINAND BRUNETIÈRE
their national isolation, have afterwards deposited in the common
treasury of the human race. Thus, to this one we owe the sense
of mystery, and we might say the revelation of what is beautiful,
in that which remains obscure and cannot be grasped. To
another we owe the sense of art, and what may be called the
appreciation of the power of form. A third one has handed to
us what was most heroic in the conception of chivalrous honor.
And to another, finally, we owe it that we know what is both
most ferocious and noblest, most wholesome and most to be
feared, in human pride. The share that belongs to us French-
men was, in the meanwhile, to bind, to fuse together, and as it
were to unify under the idea of the general society of mankind,
the contradictory and even hostile elements that may have existed
in all that. No matter whether our inventions and ideas were,
by their origin, Latin or Romance, Celtic or Gallic, Germanic
even, if you please, the whole of Europe had borrowed them
from us in order to adapt them to the genius of its different
races. Before re-admitting them in our turn, before adopting
them after they had been thus transformed, we asked only that
they should be able to serve the progress of reason and of
humanity. What was troublous in them we clarified; what was
corrupting we corrected; what was local we generalized; what
was excessive we brought down to the proportions of mankind.
Have we not sometimes also lessened their grandeur and altered
their purity? If Corneille has undoubtedly brought nearer to us
the still somewhat barbaric heroes of Guillem de Castro, La
Fontaine, when imitating the author of the Decameron, has made
him more indecent than he is in his own language; and if the
Italians have no right to assail Molière for borrowing somewhat
from them, the English may well complain that Voltaire failed
to understand Shakespeare. But it is true none the less that in
disengaging from the particular man of the North or the South
this idea of a universal man, for which we have been so often
reviled, - if any one of the modern literatures has breathed in
its entirety the spirit of the public weal and of civilization, it is
the literature of France. And this ideal cannot possibly be as
empty as has too often been asserted; since, as I endeavored to
show, from Lisbon to Stockholm and from Archangel to Naples,
it is its manifestations that foreigners have loved to come across
in the masterpieces, or better, in the whole sequence of the his-
tory of our literature.


## p. 2613 (#173) ###########################################

2613
GIORDANO BRUNO
(1548-1600)
ILIPPO BRUNO, known as Giordano Bruno, was born at Nola,
near Naples, in 1548. This was eight years after the death
of Copernicus, whose system he eagerly espoused, and ten
years before the birth of Bacon, with whom he associated in Eng-
land. Of an ardent, poetic temperament, he entered the Dominican
order in Naples at the early age of sixteen, doubtless attracted to
conventual life by the opportunities of study it offered to an eager
intellect. Bruno had been in the monastery nearly thirteen years
when he was accused of heresy in attacking some of the dogmas
of the Church. He fled first to Rome and then to Northern Italy,
where he wandered about for three seasons froin city to city, teach-
ing and writing. In 1579 he arrived at Geneva, then the stronghold
of the Calvinists. Coming into conflict with the authorities there on
account of his religious opinions, he was thrown into prison. He
escaped and went to Toulouse, at that time the literary centre of
Southern France, where he lectured for a year on Aristotle. His
restless spirit, however, drove him on to Paris. Here he was made
professor extraordinary at the Sorbonne.
Although his teachings were almost directly opposed to the philo-
sophic tenets of the time, attacking the current dogmas, and Aris-
totle, the idol of the schoolinen, yet such was the power of Bruno's
eloquence and the charm of his anner that crowds Aocked to his
lecture-room, and he became one of the most popular foreign teach-
ers the university had known. Under pretense of expounding the
writings of Thomas Aquinas, he set forth his own philosophy. He
also spoke much on the art of memory, amplifying the writings of
Raymond Lully; and these principles, formulated by the monk of the
thirteenth century and taken up again by the free-thinkers of the
sixteenth, are the basis of all the present-day mnemonics.
But Bruno went even further. He attracted the attention of King
Henry III. of France, who in 1583 introduced him to the French am-
bassador to England, Castelnuovo di Manvissière. Going to London,
he spent three years in the family of this nobleman, more as friend
than dependent. They were the happiest, or at least the most rest-
ful years of his stormy life. England was just then entering on
the glorious epoch of her Elizabethan literature. Bruno came into
the brilliant court circles, meeting even the Queen, who cordially


## p. 2614 (#174) ###########################################

2614
GIORDANO BRUNO
welcomed all men of culture, especially the Italians. The astute
monk reciprocated her good-will by paying her the customary tribute
of flattery. He won the friendship of Sir Philip Sidney, to whom
he dedicated two of his books, and enjoyed the acquaintance of Spen-
ser, Sir Fulke Greville, Dyer, Harvey, Sir William Temple, Bacon,
and other wits and poets of the day.
At that time — somewhere about 1580- Shakespeare was still serv-
ing his apprenticeship as playwright, and had perhaps less claim on
the notice of the observant foreigner than his elder contemporaries.
London was still a small town, where the news of the day spread
rapidly, and where, no doubt, strangers were as eagerly discussed as
they are now within narrow town limits. Bruno's daring speculations
could not remain the exclusive property of his own coterie. And as
Shakespeare had the faculty of absorbing all new ideas afloat in the
air, he would hardly have escaped the influence of the teacher who
proclaimed in proud self-confidence that he was come to arouse men
out of their theological stagnation. His influence on Bacon is more
evident, because of their friendly associations. Bruno lectured at
Oxford, but the English university found less favor in his eyes than
English court life. Pedantry had indeed set its fatal mark on schol-
arship, not only on the Continent but in England. Aristotle was
still the god of the pedants of that age, and dissent from his teach-
ing was heavily punished, for the dry dust of learning blinded the
eyes of the scholastics to new truths.
Bruno, the knight-errant of these truths, devoted all his life to
scourging pedantry, and dissented in toto from the idol of the schools.
No wonder he and Oxford did not agree together. He wittily calls
her “the widow of sound learning, and again, “a constellation of
pedantic, obstinate ignorance and presumption, mixed with a clown-
ish incivility that would tax the patience of Job. ” He lashed the
shortcomings of English learning in La Cena delle Ceneri! (Ash
Wednesday Conversation). But Bruno's roving spirit, and perhaps
also his heterodox tendencies, drove him at last from England, and
for the next five years he roamed about Germany, leading the life
of the wandering scholars of the time, always involved in conflicts
and controversies with the authorities, always antagonistic to public
opinion. Flying in the face of the most cherished traditions, he
underwent the common experience of all prophets: the minds he
was bent on awakening refused to be aroused.
Finally he was invited by Zuone Mocenigo of Venice to teach him
the higher and secret learning. The Venetian supposed that Bruno,
with more than human erudition, possessed the art of conveying
knowledge into the heads of dullards. Disappointed in this expecta-
tion, he quarreled with his teacher, and in a spirit of revenge picked


## p. 2615 (#175) ###########################################

GIORDANO BRUNO
2615
out of Bruno's writings a mass of testimony sufficient to convict
him of heresy. This he turned over to the Inquisitor at Venice.
Bruno was arrested, convicted, and sent to the Inquisition in Rome.
When called upon there to recant, he replied, “I ought not to
recant, and I will not recant. ” He was accordingly confined in prison
for seven years, then sentenced to death. On hearing the warrant
he said, “It may be that you fear more to deliver this judgment than
I to bear it. ” On February 17th, 1600, he was burned at the stake in
the Campo de' Fiori at Rome. He remained steadfast to the end,
saying, "I die a martyr, and willingly. ” His ashes were cast into the
Tiber. Two hundred and fifty-nine years afterwards, his statue was
unveiled on the very spot where he suffered; and the Italian govern-
ment is bringing out (1896) the first complete edition, the National
Edition, of his works.
In their substance Bruno's writings belong to philosophy rather
than to literature, although they are still interesting both historically
and biographically as an index of the character of the man and of
the temper of the time. Many of the works have either perished or
are hidden away in inaccessible archives. For two hundred years
they were tabooed, and as late as 1836 forbidden to be shown in the
public library of Dresden. He published twenty-five works in Latin
and Italian, and left many others incomplete, for in all his wander-
ings he was continually writing. The eccentric titles show his
desire to attract attention: as “The Work of the Great Key,' (The
Exploration of the Thirty Seals,' etc. The first extant work is “Il
Candelajo(The Taper), a comedy which in its license of language
and manner vividly reflects the time. In the dedication he discloses
his philosophy: “Time takes away everything and gives everything. ”
The (Spaccio della Bestia Trionfante) (Expulsion of the Triumphant
Beast), the most celebrated of his works, is an attack on the super-
stitions of the day, a curious medley of learning, imagination, and
buffoonery. Degl' Eroici Furori” (The Heroic Enthusiasts) is the
most interesting to modern readers, and in its majestic exaltation
and poetic imagery is a true product of Italian culture.
Bruno was evidently a man of vast intellect and of immense
erudition. His philosophic speculations comprehended not only the
ancient thought, and that current at his time, but also reached out
toward the future and the results of modern science. He perceived
some of the facts which were later formulated in the theory of
evolution. “The mind of man differs from that of lower animals and
of plants not in quality but only in quantity.
Each individ-
ual is the resultant of innumerable individuals. Each species is the
starting point for the next. . No individual is the same to-day
as yesterday. ”


## p. 2616 (#176) ###########################################

2616
GIORDANO BRUNO
Not only in this divination of coming truths is he modern, but
also in his methods of investigation. Reason was to him the guide
to truth, In a study of him Lewes says:- “Bruno was a true Nea-
politan child — as ardent as its soil as capricious as its varied
climate. There was a restless energy which fitted him to become
the preacher of a new crusade - urging him to throw a haughty
defiance in the face of every authority in every country, - an energy
which closed his wild adventurous career at the stake. He was dis-
tinguished also by a rich fancy, a varied humor, and a chivalrous
gallantry, which constantly remind us that the intellectual athlete is
an Italian, and an Italian of the sixteenth century.
A DISCOURSE OF POETS
From The Heroic Enthusiasts)
Cica
ICADA Say, what do you mean by those who vaunt them-
selves of myrtle and laurel ?
Tansillo— Those may and do boast of the myrtle who
sing of love: if they bear themselves nobly, they may wear a
crown of that plant consecrated to Venus, of which they know
the potency. Those may boast of the laurel who sing worthily
of things pertaining to heroes, substituting heroic souls for spec-
ulative and moral philosophy, praising them and setting them as
mirrors and exemplars for political and civil actions.
Cicada — There are then many species of poets and crowns ?
Tansillo-Not only as many as there are Muses, but a great
many more; for although genius is to be met with, yet certain
modes and species of human ingenuity cannot be thus classified.
Cicada — There certain schoolmen who barely allow
Homer to be a poet, and set down Virgil, Ovid, Martial, Hesiod,
Lucretius, and many others as versifiers, judging them by the
rules of poetry of Aristotle.
Tansillo— Know for certain, my brother, that such as these
are beasts. They do not consider that those rules serve princi-
pally as a frame for the Homeric poetry, and for other similar
to it; and they set up one as a great poet, high as Homer, and
disallow those of other vein and art and enthusiasm, who in
their various kinds are equal, similar, or greater.
Cicada - So that Homer was not a poet who depended upon
rules, but was the cause of the rules which serve for those who
are more apt at imitation than invention, and they have been
are


## p. 2617 (#177) ###########################################

GIORDANO BRUNO
2617
used by him who, being no poet, yet knew how to take the
rules of Homeric poetry into service, so as to become, not a
poet or a Homer, but one who apes the Muse of others ?
Tansillo — Thou dost well conclude that poetry is not born in
rules, or only slightly and accidentally so: the rules are derived
from the poetry, and there are as many kinds and sorts of true
rules as there are kinds and sorts of true poets.
Cicada — How then are the true poets to be known?
Tansillo — By the singing of their verses: in that singing they
give delight, or they edify, or they edify and delight together.
Cicada — To whom then are the rules of Aristotle useful ?
Tansillo — To him who, unlike Homer, Hesiod, Orpheus, and
others, could not sing without the rules of Aristotle, and who,
having no Muse of his own, would coquette with that of Homer.
Cicada - Then they are wrong, those stupid pedants of our
days, who exclude from the number of poets those who do not
use words and metaphors conformable to, or whose principles are
not in union with, those of Homer and Virgil; or because they
do not observe the custom of invocation, or because they weave
one history or tale with another, or because they finish the song
with an epilogue on what has been said and a prelude on what
is to be said, and many other kinds of criticism and censure;
from whence it seems they would imply that they themselves,
if the fancy took them, could be the true poets: and yet in fact
they are no other than worms, that know not how to do any.
thing well, but are born only to gnaw and befoul the studies and
labors of others; and not being able to attain celebrity by their
own virtue and ingenuity, seek to put themselves in the front, by
hook or by crook, through the defects and errors of others.
Tansillo — There are as many sorts of poets as there are senti-
ments and ideas; and to these it is possible to adapt garlands,
not only of every species of plant, but also of other kinds of
material. So the crowns of poets are made not only of myrtle
and of laurel, but of vine leaves for the white-wine verses, and
of ivy for the bacchanals; of olive for sacrifice and laws; of pop-
lar, of elm, and of corn for agriculture; of cypress for funerals,
and innumerable others for other occasions; and if it please you,
also of the material signified by a good fellow when he exclaimed:
“O Friar Leck! O Poetaster!
That in Milan didst buckle on thy wreath
Composed of salad, sausage, and the pepper-caster. ”


## p. 2618 (#178) ###########################################

2618
GIORDANO BRUNO
Cicada — Now surely he of divers moods, which he exhibits
in various ways, may cover himself with the branches of differ-
ent plants, and may hold discourse worthily with the Muses; for
they are his aura or comforter, his anchor or support, and his
harbor, to which he retires in times of labor, of agitation, and
of storm. Hence he cries: - "O Mountain of Parnassus, where
I abide; Muses, with whom I converse; Fountain of Helicon,
where I am nourished; Mountain, that affordest me a quiet
dwelling-place; Muses, that inspire me with profound doctrines;
Fountain, that cleansest me; Mountain, on whose ascent my heart
uprises; Muses, that in discourse revive my spirits; Fountain,
whose arbors cool my brows, - change my death into life, my
cypress to laurels, and my hells into heavens: that is, give me
immortality, make me a poet, render me illustrious! ”
Tansillo— Well; because to those whom Heaven favors, the
greatest evils turn to greatest good; for needs or necessities
bring forth labors and studies, and these most often bring the
glory of immortal splendor.
Cicada — For to die in one age makes us live in all the rest.
CANTICLE OF THE SHINING ONES
A Tribute to English Women, from "The Nolan)
"Nº
OTHING I envy, Jove, from this thy sky,”
Spake Neptune thus, and raised his lofty crest.
«God of the waves,” said Jove, “thy pride runs high;
What more wouldst add to own thy stern behest ? »
“Thou,” spake the god, “dost rule the fiery span,
The circling spheres, the glittering shafts of day;
Greater am I, who in the realm of man
Rule Thames, with all his Nymphs in fair array.
“In this my breast I hold the fruitful land,
The vasty reaches of the trembling sea;
And what in night's bright dome, or day's, shall stand
Before these radiant maids who dwell with me? )
“Not thine,” said Jove, "god of the watery mount,
To exceed my lot; but thou my lot shalt share:
Thy heavenly maids among my stars I'll count,
And thou shalt own the stars beyond compare! ”


## p. 2619 (#179) ###########################################

GIORDANO BRUNO
2619
THE SONG OF THE NINE SINGERS
O
[The first sings and plays the cithern. ]
CLIFFS and rocks! O thorny woods! O shore!
O hills and dales! O valleys, rivers, seas!
How do your new-discovered beauties please?
O Nymph, 'tis yours the guerdon rare,
If now the open skies shine fair;
O happy wanderings, well spent and o'er!
[The second sings and plays to his mandolin. ]
O happy wanderings, well spent and o'er!
Say then, O Circe, these heroic tears,
These griefs, endured through tedious months and years,
Were as a grace divine bestowed
If now our weary travail is no more.
[The third sings and plays to his lyre. ]
If now our weary travail is no more!
If this sweet haven be our destined rest,
Then naught remains but to be blest,
To thank our God for all his gifts,
Who from our eyes the veil uplifts,
Where shines the light upon the heavenly shore.
(The fourth sings to the viol. ]
Where shines the light upon the heavenly shore!
O blindness, dearer far than others' sight!
O sweeter grief than earth's most sweet delight!
For ye have led the erring soul
By gradual steps to this fair goal,
And through the darkness into light we soar.
[The fifth sings to a Spanish timbrel. ]
And through the darkness into light we soar!
To full fruition all high thought is brought,
With such brave patience that ev'n we
At least the only path can see,
And in his noblest work our God adore.


## p. 2620 (#180) ###########################################

2620
GIORDANO BRUNO
[The sixth sings to a lute. )
And in his noblest work our God adore!
God doth not will joy should to joy succeed,
Nor ill shall be of other ill the seed;
But in his hand the wheel of fate
Turns, now depressed and now elate,
Evolving day from night for evermore.
[The seventh sings to the Irish harp. ]
Evolving day from night for evermore!
And as yon robe of glorious nightly fire
Pales when the morning beams to noon aspire,
Thus He who rules with law eternal,
Creating order fair diurnal,
Casts down the proud and doth exalt the poor.
[The eighth plays with a viol and bow. )
Casts down the proud and doth exalt the poor!
And with an equal hand maintains
The boundless worlds which He sustains,
And scatters all our finite sense
At thought of His omnipotence,
Clouded awhile, to be revealed once more.
[The ninth plays upon the rebeck. ]
Clouded awhile, to be revealed once more!
Thus neither doubt nor fear avails;
O'er all the incomparable End prevails,
O'er fair champaign and mountain,
O'er river-brink and fountain,
And o'er the shocks of seas and perils of the shore.
Translation of Isa Blagden.


## p. 2621 (#181) ###########################################

GIORDANO BRUNO
2621
OF IMMENSITY
From Frith's Life of Giordano Bruno)
'T'S
is thou, O Spirit, dost within my soul
This weakly thought with thine own life amend;
Rejoicing, dost thy rapid pinions lend
Me, and dost wing me to that lofty goal
Where secret portals ope and fetters break,
And thou dost grant me, by thy grace complete,
Fortune to spurn, and death; ( high retreat,
Which few attain, and fewer yet forsake!
Girdled with gates of brass in every part,
Prisoned and bound in vain, 'tis mine to rise
Through sparkling fields of air to pierce the skies,
Sped and accoutred by no doubting heart,
Till, raised on clouds of contemplation vast,
Light, leader, law, Creator, I attain at last.
LIFE WELL LOST
W"
INGED by desire and thee, O dear delight!
As still the vast and succoring air I tread,
So, mounting still, on swifter pinions sped,
I scorn the world, and heaven receives my flight.
And if the end of Ikaros be nigh,
I will submit, for I shall know no pain:
And falling dead to earth, shall rise again;
What lowly life with such high death can vie ?
Then speaks my heart from out the upper air,
«Whither dost lead me ? sorrow and despair
Attend the rash:” and thus I make reply:-
« Fear thou no fall, nor lofty ruin sent;
Safely divide the clouds, and die content,
When such proud death is dealt thee from on high. ”
PARNASSUS WITHIN
O
HEART, 'tis you my chief Parnassus are,
Where for my safety I must ever climb.
My winged thoughts are Muses, who from far
Bring gifts of beauty to the court of Time;
And Helicon, that fair unwasted rill,
Springs newly in my tears upon the earth,


## p. 2622 (#182) ###########################################

262 2
GIORDANO BRUNO
And by those streams and nymphs, and by that hill,
It pleased the gods to give a poet birth.
No favoring hand that comes of lofty race,
No priestly unction, nor the grant of kings,
Can on me lay such lustre and such grace,
Nor add such heritage; for one who sings
Hath a crowned head, and by the sacred bay,
His heart, his thoughts, his tears, are consecrate alway.
COMPENSATION
THE
HE moth beholds not death as forth he flies
Into the splendor of the living flame;
The hart athirst to crystal water hies,
Nor heeds the shaft, nor fears the hunter's aim;
The timid bird, returning from above
To join his mate, deems not the net is nigh;
Unto the light, the fount, and to my love,
Seeing the flame, the shaft, the chains, I fly;
So high a torch, love-lighted in the skies,
Consumes my soul; and with this bow divine
Of piercing sweetness what terrestrial vies ?
This net of dear delight doth prison mine;
And I to life's last day have this desire -
Be mine thine arrows, love, and mine thy fire.
LIFE FOR SONG
COM
HOME Muse, O Muse, so often scorned by me,
The hope of sorrow and the balm of care,–
Give to me speech and song, that I may be
Unchid by grief; grant me such graces rare
As other ministering souls may never see
Who boast thy laurel, and thy myrtle wear.
I know no joy wherein thou hast not part,
My speeding wind, my anchor, and my goal.
Come, fair Parnassus, lift thou up my heart;
Come, Helicon, renew my thirsty soul.
A cypress crown, ( Muse, is thine to give,
And pain eternal: take this weary frame,
Touch me with fire, and this my death shall live
On all men's lips and in undying fame.


## p. 2622 (#183) ###########################################



## p. 2622 (#184) ###########################################


CONT
TELLITE
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.


## p. 2623 (#185) ###########################################

2623
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
(1794-1878)
BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP
D
ISTINGUISHED as he was by the lofty qualities of his verse,
William Cullen Bryant held a place almost unique in Amer-
ican literature, by the union of his activity as a poet with
his eminence as a citizen and an influential journalist, throughout
an uncommonly long career. Two traits still further define the
peculiarity of his position — his precocious development, and the
evenness and sustained vigor of all his poetic work from the begin-
ning to the end. He began writing verse at the age of eight; at
ten he made contributions in this kind to the county gazette, and
produced a finished and effective rhymed address, read at his school
examination, which became popular for recitation; and in his thir-
teenth year, during the Presidency of Thomas Jefferson, he com-
posed a political satire, The Embargo. This, being published, was
at first supposed by many to be the work of a man, attracted much
attention and praise, and passed into a second edition with other
shorter pieces.
But these, while well wrought in the formal eighteenth-century
fashion, showed no special originality. It was with Thanatopsis,'
written in 1811, when he was only seventeen, that his career as a
poet of original and assured strength began. “Thanatopsis) was an
inspiration of the primeval woods of America, of the scenes that
surrounded the writer in youth. At the same time it expressed with
striking independence and power a fresh conception of the univer-
sality of Death in the natural order. ” As has been well said, “it
takes the idea of death out of its theological aspects and restores it
to its proper place in the vast scheme of things. This in itself was
a mark of genius in a youth of his time and place. ” Another Amer-
ican poet, Stoddard, calls it the greatest poem ever written by so
young a man. The author's son-in-law and biographer, Parke God-
win, remarks upon it aptly, “For the first time on this continent
a poem was written destined to general admiration and enduring
fame;" and this indeed is a very significant point, that it began the
history of true poetry in the United States, a fact which further
secured to Bryant his exceptional place.
The poem remains a classic
of the English language, and the author himself never surpassed the
high mark attained in it; although the balanced and iasting nature


## p. 2624 (#186) ###########################################

2624
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
of his faculty is shown in a pendant to this poem, which he created
in his old age and entitled “The Flood of Years. ' The last is equal
to the first in dignity and finish, but is less original, and has never
gained a similar fame.
Another consideration regarding Bryant is, that representing a
modern development of poetry under American inspiration, he was
also a descendant of the early Massachusetts colonists, being con-
nected with the Pilgrim Fathers through three ancestral lines. Born
at Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3d, 1794, the son of a stal-
wart but studious country physician of literary tastes, he inherited
the strong religious feeling of this ancestry, which was united in
him with a deep and sensitive love of nature. This led him to
reflect in his poems the strength and beauty of American landscape,
vividly as it had never before been mirrored; and the blending of
serious thought and innate piety with the sentiment for nature so
reflected gave a new and impressive result.
Like many other long-lived men, Bryant suffered from delicate
health in the earlier third of his life: there was a tendency to
consumption in his otherwise vigorous family stock. He read much,
and was much interested in Greek literature and somewhat influenced
by it. But he also lived a great deal in the open air, rejoiced in the
boisterous games and excursions in the woods with his brothers and
sisters, and took long rambles alone among the hills and wild
groves; being then, as always afterwards, an untiring walker. After
a stay of only seven months at Williams College, he studied law,
which he practiced for some eight years in Plainfield and Great
Barrington. In the last-named village he was elected a tithingman,
charged with the duty of keeping order in the churches and
enforcing the observance of Sunday. Chosen town clerk soon after-
wards, at a salary of five dollars a year, he kept the records of the
town with his own hand for five years, and also served as justice
of the peace with power to hear cases in a lower court. These
biographical items are of value, as showing his close relation to the
self-government of the people in its simpler forms, and his early
practical familiarity with the duties of a trusted citizen.
Meanwhile, however, he kept on writing at intervals, and in 1821
read before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Harvard a long poem,
( The Ages,' a kind of composition more in favor at that period than
in later days, being a general review of the progress of man in
knowledge and virtue. With the passage of time it has not held
its own as against some of his other poems, although it long enjoyed
a high reputation; but its success on its original hearing was the
cause of his bringing together his first volume of poems, hardly more
than a pamphlet, in the same year. It made him famous with the


## p. 2625 (#187) ###########################################

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
2625
reading public of the United States, and won some recognition in
England. In this little book were contained, besides (The Ages
and Thanatopsis, several pieces which have kept their hold upon
popular taste; such as the well-known lines (To a Waterfowl' and
the Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood. '
The year of its publication also brought into the world Cooper's
(The Spy,' Irving's (Sketch Book) and Bracebridge Hall, with vari-
ous other significant volumes, including Channing's early essays
and Daniel Webster's great Plymouth Oration. It was evident that
a native literature was dawning brightly; and as Bryant's productions
now came into demand, and he had never liked the profession of
law, he quitted it and went to New York in 1825, there to seek a
living by his pen as “a literary adventurer. ” The adventure led to
ultimate triumph, but not until after a long term of dark prospects
and hard struggles.
Even in his latest years Bryant used to declare that his favorite
among his poems — although it is one of the least known - was
'Green River'; perhaps because it recalled the scenes of young man-
hood, when he was about entering the law, and contrasted the peace-
fulness of that stream with the life in which he would be
«Forced to drudge for the dregs of men,
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,
And mingle among the jostling crowd,
Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud. »
This might be applied to much of his experience in New York,
where he edited the New York Review and became one of the edi-
tors, then a proprietor, and finally chief editor of the Evening Post.
A great part of his energies now for many years was given to hi
journalistic function, and to the active outspoken discussion of import-
ant political questions; often in trying crises and at the cost of harsh
unpopularity. Success, financial as well as moral, came to him within
the next quarter-century, during which laborious interval he had like-
wise maintained his interest and work in pure literature and produced
new poems from time to time in various editions.
From this point on until his death, June 12th, 1878, in his eighty-
fourth year, he was the central and commanding figure in the enlarging
literary world of New York. His newspaper had gained a potent
reputation, and it brought to bear upon public affairs a strong influ-
ence of the highest sort. Its editorial course and tone, as well as the
earnest and patriotic part taken by Bryant in popular questions and
national affairs, without political ambition or office-holding, had estab-
lished him as one of the most distinguished citizens of the metropolis,
no less than its most renowned poet. His presence and co-operation
V-165


## p. 2626 (#188) ###########################################

2626
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
were indispensable in all great public functions or humanitarian and
intellectual movements. In 1864 his seventieth birthday was celebrated
at the Century Club with extraordinary honors. In 1875, again, the
two houses of the State Legislature at Albany paid him the compli-
ment, unprecedented in the annals of American authorship, of inviting
him to a reception given to him in their official capacity. Another
mark of the abounding esteem in which he was held among his
fellow-citizens was the presentation to him in 1876 of a rich silver
vase, commemorative of his life and works. He was now a wealthy
man; yet his habits of life remained essentially unchanged. His
tastes were simple, his love of nature was still ardent; his literary
and editorial industry unflagging.
Besides his poems, Bryant wrote two short stories for “Tales of
the Glauber Spa'; and published Letters of a Traveler' in 1850, as
a result of three journeys to Europe and the Orient, together with
various public addresses. His style as a writer of prose is clear,
calm, dignified, and denotes exact observation and a wide range of
interests. So too his editorial articles in the Evening Post, some
of which have been preserved in his collected writings, are couched
in serene and forcible English, with nothing of the sensational or the
colloquial about them. They were a fitting medium of expression
for his firm conscientiousness and integrity as a journalist.
But it is as a poet, and especially by a few distinctive composi-
tions, that Bryant will be most widely and deeply held in remem-
brance. In the midst of the exacting business of his career as an
editor, and many public or social demands upon his time, he found
opportunity to familiarize himself with portions of German and Span-
ish poetry, which he translated, and to maintain in the quietude of
his country home in Roslyn, Long Island, his old acquaintance with
the Greek and Latin classics. From this continued study there re-
sulted naturally in 1870 his elaborate translation of Homer's Iliad,
which was followed by that of the Odyssey in 1871. These scholarly
works, cast in strong and polished blank verse, won high praise from
American critics, and even achieved a popular success, although they
were not warmly acclaimed, in England. Among literarians they are
still regarded as in a manner standards of their kind. Bryant, in his
long march of over sixty-five years across the literary field, was wit-
ness to many new developments in poetic writing, in both his own
and other countries. But while he perceived the splendor and color
and rich novelty of these, he held in his own work to the plain
theory and practice which had guided him from the start. «The best
poetry,” he still believed — “that which takes the strongest hold of
the general mind, not in one age only but in all ages — is that which
is always simple and always luminous. ” He did not embody in


## p. 2627 (#189) ###########################################

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
2627
impassioned forms the sufferings, emotions, or problems of the hu-
man kind, but was disposed to generalize them, as in The Journey
of Life,' the (Hymn of the City,' and 'The Song of the Sower. ' It is
characteristic that two of the longer poems, Sella' and 'The Little
People of the Snow,' which are narratives, deal with legends of an
individual human life merging itself with the inner life of nature,
under the form of imaginary beings who dwell in the snow or in
water. On the other hand, one of his eulogists observes that al-
though some of his contemporaries went much beyond him in full-
ness of insight and nearness to the great conflicts of the age, «he
has certainly not been surpassed, perhaps not been approached, by
any writer since Wordsworth, in that majestic repose and that self-
reliant simplicity which characterized the morning stars of song. ” In
(Our Country's Call, however, one hears the ring of true martial
enthusiasm; and there is a deep patriotic fervor in O Mother of
a Mighty Race. ' The noble and sympathetic homage paid to the
typical womanhood of a genuine woman of every day, in “The
Conqueror's Grave,' reveals also great underlying warmth and sensi-
tiveness of feeling. Robert of Lincoln' and (The Planting of the
Apple-Tree' are both touched with a lighter mood of joy in nature,
which supplies a contrast to his usual pensiveness.
Bryant's venerable aspect in old age — with erect form, white hair,
and flowing snowy beard - gave him a resemblance to Homer; and
there was something Homeric about his influence upon the litera-
ture of his country, in the dignity with which he invested the poetic
art and the poet's relation to the people.
Serge Persons Latterop
(All Bryant's poems were originally published by D. Appleton and Company. )
THANATOPSIS
T°
0 Him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,


## p. 2628 (#190) ###########################################

2628
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air
Comes a still voice:-
Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings,
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods — rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, —
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. - Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound


## p. 2629 (#191) ###########################################

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
2629
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's fresh spring and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe and the gray-headed man
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
THE CROWDED STREET
L
ET me move slowly through the street,
Filled with an ever-shifting train,
Amid the sound of steps that beat
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.
How fast the fitting figures come!
The mild, the fierce, the stony face –
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
Where secret tears have lost their trace.
They pass to toil, to strife, to rest --
To halls in which the feast is spread —


## p. 2630 (#192) ###########################################

2630
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
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
Where one who made their dwelling dear,
Its flower, its light, is seen no more.
Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
And dreams of greatness in thine eye!
Go'st thou to build an early name,
Or early in the task to die?
Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
Who is now fluttering in thy snare?
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
Or melt the glittering spires in air?
Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance till daylight gleam again?
Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ?
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ?
Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
The cold dark hours, how slow the light;
And some who flaunt amid the throng
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.
Each where his tasks or pleasures call,
They pass, and heed each other not.
There is Who heeds, Who holds them all
In His large love and boundless thought.
These struggling tides of life, that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.
Copyrighted by D. Appleton and Company, New York.
1


## p. 2631 (#193) ###########################################

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
2631
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS
T"
HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and
sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and
stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ?
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on
men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and
glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will
come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are
still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he
bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful ity died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.


## p. 2632 (#194) ###########################################

2632
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE
W"
IThin this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,
And yet the monument proclaims it not,
Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought
The emblems of a fame that never dies, -
Ivy and amaranth, in a graceful sheaf,
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.
A simple name alone,
To the great world unknown,
Is graven here, and wild-flowers rising round,
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,
Lean lovingly against the humble stone.
Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart
No man of iron mold and bloody hands,
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands
The passions that consumed his restless heart:
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest, in mien and mind,
Of gentle womankind,
Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame;
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made
Its haunts, like flowers by sunny brooks in May,
Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.
Nor deem that when the hand that molders here
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,
And armies mustered at the sign, as when
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East –
Gray captains leading bands of veteran men
And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.
Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave
The victory to her who fills this grave:
Alone her task was wrought,
Alone the battle fought;
Through that long strife her constant hope was staid
On God alone, nor looked for other aid.
She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look
That altered not beneath the frown they wore,
And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took
Meekly her gentle rule, and frowned no more.


## p. 2633 (#195) ###########################################

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
2633
Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,
And calmly broke in twain
The fiery shafts of pain,
And rent the nets of passion from her path.
By that victorious hand despair was slain.
With love she vanquished hate and overcame
Evil with good, in her Great Master's name.
Her glory is not of this shadowy state,
Glory that with the fleeting season dies;
But when she entered at the sapphire gate
What joy was radiant in celestial eyes!
How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung,
And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!
And He who long before,
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,
The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,
Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat;
He who returning, glorious, from the grave,
Dragged Death disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.
See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;
Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.
O gentle sleeper, from the grave
I
go,
Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear.
Brief is the time, I know,
The warfare scarce begun;
Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee;
The victors' names are yet too few to fill
Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory
That ministered to thee, is open still.
THE BATTLE-FIELD
OY
NCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave –
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they sought to save.


## p. 2634 (#196) ###########################################

2634
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle-cry-
Oh, be it never heard again!
Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown — yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again -
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshipers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here!
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.
Copyrighted by D. Appleton and Company, New York.


## p. 2635 (#197) ###########################################

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
2635
TO A WATERFOWL
W"
HITHER, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of
day,
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side ?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast -
The desert and illimitable air-
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.


## p. 2636 (#198) ###########################################

2636
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
ROBERT OF LINCOLN
M
ERRILY swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,
Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest.
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Look what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings :-
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink:
Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is she;
One weak chirp is her only note.
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat :
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink:
Never was I afraid of man;
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!
Chee, chee, chee.
Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!


## p. 2637 (#199) ###########################################

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
2637
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:-
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care;
Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.
Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;
Off he fies, and we sing as he goes:-
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.
1855.


## p. 2638 (#200) ###########################################

2638
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
JUNE
I
GAZED upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round;
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
"Twere pleasant that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich green mountain turf should break.
A cell within the frozen mold,
A coffin borne through sleet,
And icy clods above it rolled,
While fierce the tempests beat -
Away! I will not think of these:
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mold gently pressed
Into my narrow place of rest.
There through the long, long summer hours
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by;
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife bee and humming-bird.
And what if cheerful shouts at noon
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent ?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothèd lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument ?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know that I no more should see
The season's glorious show,


## p. 2639 (#201) ###########################################

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
2639
Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills
Is- that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN
Hou blossom, bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night;
THON
Thou comest not when violets lean
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frost and shortening days portend
The aged Year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue - blue — as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
Copyrighted by D. Appleton and Company, New York.


## p. 2640 (#202) ###########################################

2640
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
THE FUTURE LIFE
Hº"
OW SHALL I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
And perishes among the dust we tread ?
For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.
Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,
And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?
In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?
The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore,
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?
A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.
For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell
Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll;
And wrath has left its scar - that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.