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I had not bound myself by any ties

To that blessed land; none saw me and none sought;

Nor any shunned, nor from me turned their eyes;
And yet such sense of guilt my conscience wrought,
It seemed that every bosom's inmost thought
Was fixed on me;-when back as from their view
I shrunk, and would have fled or shrunk to naught,
As some I loved and many that I knew
Passed on uumindful why or whither I withdrew.

Whereat of sad remembrances a flood

Rushed o'er my spirit, and my heart beat low As with the heavy gush of curdling blood :— Soon left behind, awhile I followed slow, Then stopped and round me looked, my fate to know,

But looked in vain;-no voice my doom to tell;No arm to hurl me down the depths of woe;It seemed that I was brought to heaven to dwell, That conscience might alone do all the work of hell.

Now came the thought, the bitter thought of years
Wasted in musings sad and fancies wild,
And in the visionary hopes and fears

Of the false feeling of a heart beguiled
By nature's strange enchantment, strong and wild;
Now, with celestial beauty blooming round,

I stood as on some naked waste exiled: From gathering hosts came music's swelling sound, But deeper in despair my sinking spirits drowned.

At length methought a darkness as of death

Came slowly o'er me, and with that I woke ; Yet knew not, in the first suspended breath, Where I could be, so real seemed the stroke That in my dream all earthly ties had broke; A moment more, and melting in a tide

Of grateful fervor, how did I invoke Power from the Highest to leave all beside, And live but to secure the bliss my dream denied!

SEPTEMBER.

The sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year;—
All mildness, soothing loveliness, and peace :
The fading season, ere the falling come,
More sober than the buxom blooming May,
And therefore less the favorite of the world,
But dearest month of all to pensive minds!

'Tis now far spent; and the meridian sun,

Most sweetly smiling with attempered beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth.-
Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods,
Checkered by one night's frost with various hues,
While yet no wind has swept a leaf away,
Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight
Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues,
The yellow, red, or purple of the trees,
That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick,
Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side
Of some high mount reflected far below
With its bright colors, intermixed with spots
Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad
To wander in the open fields, and hear
E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past,
The lulling insects of the summer's night;
To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard,
A lonely bee, long roving here and there
To find a single flower, but all in vain;
Then rising quick, and with a louder hum,
In widening circles round and round his head,
Straight by the listener flying clear away,
As if to bid the fields a last adien:-
To hear, within the woodland's sunny side,
Late full of music, nothing, save, perhaps,
The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropped
From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.

William Cullen Bryant.

AMERICAN.

Bryant (1794-1878), the first American poet of celebrity, was born at Cummington, Mass., November 3d. He began to write verse at the age of ten; and at thirteen wrote and published "The Embargo," a political satire, and a very remarkable one, under the circumstances. Educated at Williams College, he was admitted to the Bar in 1815, married young, and began the practice of the law at Great Barrington. His celebrated poem of "Thanatopsis" was written before he was twenty.

In 1825 Bryant removed to New York, and in 1826 connected himself with the New York Evening Post, his proprietary interest in which eventually became the source of an ample fortune. In 1834 he travelled in Europe, and in 1845 and 1849 repeated his visit. A collection of his poems was published in New York in 1832, and republished in London. Repeated editions of his collected works have appeared. In 1870 a fine edition of his masterly translation of Homer, in which he surpasses all predecessors, was published in Boston.

"Bryant's writings," says Washington Irving, "transport us into the depths of the solemn primeval forest, to the shores of the lonely lake, the banks of the wild, nameless stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like

a promontory from amidst a wide ocean of foliage; while they shed around us the glories of a climate fierce in its extremes, but splendid in all its vicissitudes."

But it is not only in his descriptions of nature that Bryant excels. In his "Antiquity of Freedom," "The Future Life," "The Battle-field," etc., he reaches a high ethical strain, and is, at the same time, the genuine poet in thought and diction. Few men of letters have, in the latter half of their lives, had so prosperous, so honored, and so eminently successful a career, extending beyond fourscore years of physical activity and intellectual robustness. In his domestic relations singularly fortunate, he was equally so in all his public experiences.

“Bryant,” says a German critic,“is thoroughly American in his poetry. A truly national method of thinking and judging pervades even those from among his productions which treat of non-American subjects." The remark is just, and is a sufficient reply to the superficial sarcasm, heedlessly thrown out by Lord Jeffrey, that Bryant is "but a dilution of Mrs. Hemans." We can recall no one verse of Bryant's to which this rash comment could apply. He and Mrs. Hemans were born the same year, and some of his best poems were written before she was known in America. "It is in the beautiful," says John Wilson of Blackwood's Magazine, "that the genius of Bryant finds its prime delight. He ensouls all dead, insensate things; *** and thus there is animation in the heart of the solitude."

Bryant's morality was not only psychical but physiological. He reverenced and fulfilled the laws of physical health. He took scrupulous care of himself. His senses were perfect at fourscore; his eyes needed no glasses; his hearing was exquisitely fine; he outwalked most men of middle age. Milk and cereals and fruit were his preferred diet. Regular in his habits, he retained his youth almost to the last, and his final illness was contracted in a too fearless out-of-door exposure. "His power of work," says Dr. Bellows," never abated; and the Herculean translation of Homer, which was the amusement of the last lustre of his life, showed not only no senility, but no decrease of intellectual or physical endurance.”

NOVEMBER.

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapory air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian flower that in the breeze
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in the ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened
air.

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarléd pines,
That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground
Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet
To linger here, among the flitting birds
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds
That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass
A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set
With pale blueberries. In these peaceful shades-
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—
My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,
Back to the earliest days of liberty.

O FREEDOM! thou art not, as poets dream,
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap
With which the Roman master crowned his slave
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
Armed to the teeth, art thou: one mailéd hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy
brow,

Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs

Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;
They could not quench the life thou hast from
Heaven.

Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep,
And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,
Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee

bound,

The links are shivered, and the prison walls
Fall outward: terribly thou springest forth,
As springs the flame above a burning pile,
And shoutest to the nations, who return
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

Thy birthright was not given by human hands:
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,
While yet our race was few, thou satest with him,
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,
And teach the reed to utter simple airs.
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,
His only foes; and thou with him didst draw
The earliest furrows on the mountain side,
Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself,
Thy enemy, although of reverend look,
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed,
Is later born than thou; and as he meets

The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,
But he shall fade into a feebler age;
Feebler, yet subtler: he shall weave his snares,
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap
His withered hands, and from their ambush call
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send
Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms,
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words
To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on
thread,

That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet
Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by
Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps,
And thou must watch and combat, till the day
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men,
These old and friendly solitudes invite
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees
Were young upon the unviolated earth,
And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

THANATOPSIS.

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language: for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart-
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice:-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy 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 heayen,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
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 glide away, the sons of men,

The youth, in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the 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 that 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!

Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet; and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

SUMMER WIND.

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.

But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,——
Their bases on the mountains, their white tops
Shining in the far ether,-fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

Oh come, and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life! Is it that in his caves He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his proud top, and now, Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes! Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves! The deep, distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds And universal motion. He is come, Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings Music of birds and rustling of young boughs, And sound of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant water-falls. All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers, By the roadside and the borders of the brook,

THE FUTURE LIFE.

LINES ADDRESSED TO HIS WIFE.

How 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;
Shall it be banished from thy tongue 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 the heart, as heat the scroll;
And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet, though thou wearest the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same belovéd name? The same fair, thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,

The wisdom that I learned so ill in thisThe wisdom which is love,-till I become

Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

MEETING OF HECTOR AND ACHILLES.

The following is a specimen of Bryant's translation of the "Iliad." The reader of Homer will remember that Hector first retreats before Achilles, but at length turns upon his pursuer, determined to meet his fate, whatever it may be.

He spake, and drew the keen-edged sword that hung,

Massive and finely tempered, at his side,

And sprang,-
—as when an eagle high in heaven,
Through the thick cloud, darts downward to the
plain,

To clutch some tender lamb or timid hare.
So Hector, brandishing that keen-edged sword,
Sprang forward, while Achilles opposite
Leaped toward him, all on fire with savage hate,
And holding his bright buckler, nobly wrought,
Before him. As in the still hours of night
Hesper goes forth among the host of stars,
The fairest light of heaven, so brightly shone,
Brandished in the right hand of Peleus' son,
The spear's keen blade, as, confident to slay
The noble Hector, o'er his glorious form
His quick eye ran, exploring where to plant
The surest wound. The glittering mail of brass
Won from the slain Patroclus guarded well
Each part, save only where the collar-bones
Divide the shoulder from the neck, and there
Appeared the throat, the spot where life is most
In peril. Through that part the noble son
Of Peleus drave his spear; it went quite through
The tender neck, and yet the brazen blade
Cleft not the windpipe, and the power to speak
Remained. *

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And then the crested Hector faintly said,
"I pray thee by thy life, and by thy knees,
And by thy parents, suffer not the dogs
To tear me at the galleys of the Greeks.
Accept abundant store of brass and gold,
Which gladly will my father and the queen,
My mother, give in ransom. Send to them
My body, that the warriors and the dames
Of Troy may light for me the funeral pile."

The swift Achilles answered with a frown,--
"Nay, by my knees entreat me not, thou cur,
Nor by my parents. I could even wish
My fury prompted me to cut thy flesh
In fragments, and devouz it, such the wrong
That I have had from thee. There will be none
To drive away the dogs about thy head,
Not though thy Trojan friends should bring to me
Tenfold and twenty-fold the offered gifts,
And promise others,-not though Priam, sprung
From Dardanus, should send thy weight in gold.

Thy mother shall not lay thee on thy bier,
To sorrow over thee whom she brought forth;
But dogs and birds of prey shall mangle thee."
And then the crested Hector, dying, said,—
"I know thee, and too clearly I foresaw

I should not move thee, for thou hast a heart
Of iron. Yet reflect that for my sake
The anger of the gods may fall on thee,
When Paris and Apollo strike thee down,
Strong as thou art, before the Scaan gates."
Thus Hector spake, and straightway o'er him
closed

The light of death; the soul forsook his limbs,
And flew to Hades, grieving for its fate,-
So soon divorced from youth and youthful might.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and arméd hands Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her braveGushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry,

Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year,
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot:
The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown-yet faint thou not.

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