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Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
'Tis the wind, and nothing more.'
Perched aud sut, aud nothing more.
Quoth the Raven: • Nevermore.'
With such a name as • Nevermore.!.
Then the bird said : • Never more.'
Of “ Never-never more.”'
Meant in croaking Never inore.'
She shall press, ah, never more!
Quoth the Raven : Never more!
Quoth the Raven : Never more.
Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil !-prophet still, if bird or devil !
Quoth be Raven : Never more.'
Get thee back into the ten pest and the night's plutonian shore1
Quota the Raven : 'Never more.'
Shall be lifted - Dever more !
WILLIAM ÇULLEN BRYANT. The father of the present generation of American poets, and one of the most original of the brotherhood, is WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, born at Cummington, Hampshire County, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. With a precocity rivalling that of Cowley or Chatterton, Bryant at the age of thirteen wrote a satirical poem on the Jeffersopian party, which was published in 1808 under the title of The Embargo.' A few lines from this piece will shew how well the boy-poet had mastered the art of versification:
E'en while I sing. see Faction urge her claim,
And sued successful for each blockhead's vote. From this perilous course of political versifying, the young author was removed by being placed at Williams College. He was admitted to the bar, and practised for several years with fair success; but in 1825, he removed to New York, and entered upon that literary life which he has ever since followed. In 1826 Mr. Bryant became editor of the New York Evening Post,' and his connection with that journal still subsists. His poetical works consist of 'Thanatopsis an exquisite solemn strain of blank verse, first published in 18:6;
• The Ages, n survey of the experience of mankind, 1828; and various pieces scattered through periodical works. Mr. Washington Irving, struck with the beauty of Bryant's poetry, had it collected and published in London in 1832. The British public, lie said, had expressed its delight at the graphic descriptions of American scenery and wild woodland characters contained in the works of Cooper. • The same keen eye and just feeling for nature,' he added, “the same indigenous style of thinking and local peculiarity of imagery, which give such novelty and interest to the pages of that gifted writer, will be found to characterise this volume, condensed into a narrower compass, and sublimated into poetry.'
From this opinion Professor Wilson-who reviewed the volume in * Blackwood's Magazine' -dissented, believing that Cooper's pictures are infinitely richer in local peculiarity of imagery and thought. • The chief charm of Bryant's genius,' he considered, consists in a tender pensiveness, a moral melancholy, breathing over all his contemplations, dreams, and reveries, even such as in the main are glad, and giving assurance of a pure spirit, benevolent to all living creatures, and habitually pious in the felt omnipresence of the Creator. His poetry overflows with natural religion-with what Wordsworth calls the religion of the woods.' This is strictly applicable to the * Thanatopsis' and · Forest Hymn;' but Washington Irving is so far right that Bryant's grand merit is his nationality and his power of painting the American landscape, especially in its wild, solitary, and magnificent forms. His diction is pure and lucid, with scarcely a flaw, and he is master of blank verse. Mr. Bryant has translated the Iliad' and Odyssey,' 4 vols. (Boston, 1870-1872.)
From • Thanatopsis.'
And millions in those solitudes, since first
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
Lodged in sunny cleft
The Disinterred Warrior.
In nearer kindred than our race. And solemnly and softly lay,
In many a flood to madness tossed, Beneath the verdure of the plain,
In many a storm has been his path, The warrior's scattered bones away. He hid him not from heat or frost. Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, But met them, and defied their wrath.
The homage of man's heart to death ; Nor dare to trifle with the mould
Then they were kind—the forests here, Once hallowed by the Almighty's Rivers, and stiller waters, paid breath.
A tribute to the net and spear
Of the red ruler of the shade. The soul bath quickened every part- Fruits on the woodland branches lay, That rempant of a martial hrow,
Roots in the shaded soil below. Those ribs that held the mighty beart, he stars looked forth to teach bis way, 'l bat strong arm--stroug no longer The still earth warned him of the foe,
of God's own image ; let them rest, With their old forests wide and deep,
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, For he was fresher from the Hand
Upon their fields our harvest waves, That formed of earth the human face, Our lovers woo beneath their moonAnd to the elements did stand
Ah! let us spare at least their graves !
An Indian at the Burying-place of his Fathers. It is the spot I came to seek
And the gray chief and gifted seer My fathers' ancient burial-place, Worshipped the God of thunders here. Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, Withdrew our wasted ruce.
But now the wheat is green and high It is the spot-I know it well
On clods that híd the warrior's breast, Of which our old traditions tell.
And scattered in the furrows lie
The weapons of his rest; For here the upland bank sends out And there, in the loose sand. is thrown A ridge toward the river-side ;
of his large arm the mouldering bone. I know the sbaggy hills about,
The meadows smooth and wide; Ah, little thought the strong and brave, The plains that, toward the eastern sky, Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth, Fenced east and west by mountains lie. Or the young wife that weeping gave
Her first-born to the earth, A white man, gazing on the scene, That the pale race, who waste us pow,
Would say a lovely spot was here, Among their bones should guide the And praise the lawng, 80 fresh and green, plough!
Between the hills so sheer.
They waste 18-ay, like April snow
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they foliow, as we go The sheep are on the slopes around, Toward the setting day
The cattle in the meadows feed. Till they shall fill the land, and we And Inbourers turn the crumbling ground, Are driven into the western sea.
Or drop the yellow seed, And pruncing steeds, in trappings gay, But I behold a fearful sign, Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way. To which the white man's eyes are
blind; Methinks it were a pobler sight
Their race may vanish hence, like mine, To see these vales in woods arrayed, And leave no trace behind, Their summits in the golden light, Save ruins o'er the region spread,
Their tranks in grateful shade; And the white stones above the dead. And herds of deer, that bounding go O'er rills and prostrate trees below. Beforc these fields were shorn and tilled,
Full to the brim our rivers flowed; And then to mark the lord of all,
The melody of waters filled The forest hero, trained to wars,
The fresh and boundless wood : Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, And torrents dashed, and rivulets played,
And seamed with glorious scars, And fountains spouted in the shade.
Was sacred wben its soil was ours; The rivers, by the blackened shore, Hither the artless Indian maid
With lessening current run; Brought wreaths of beads and flowers. The realm our tribes are crushed to get,
May be a barren desert yet!
R. I. DANA-N. P. WILLISO. W. HOLMES. RICHARD HENRY Dana (born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1787) was author of a small volume, “The Buccaneer, and other Poems' (1827), which was hailed as an original and powerful contribution to American literature. He had previously published * The Dying Raven,' a poem (1825), and contributed essays to a periodical work. The Buccaneer' is founded on a tradition of a murder committed on an island on the coast of New England by a