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 BRYANT. 
 
 POEMS FROM THE 
 STORKS OF WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, 
 
 FOR HOMES, LIBRARIES, AND SCHOOLS. 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 JOSEPHINE E. HODGDON. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 <fy 
 
 . APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 • 
 
 1, 3, and 5 BOND STREET. 
 
 ^M 
 
 1884. 
 
 
Topical Readers for Higher Grades. 
 
 Gaining Use! Knowledge while Learning to Read. 
 
 Attention is invited to the following new books, with regard to 
 their special adaptation to use in 
 
 Intermediate, Gfranjnjar, aijd I^igh Schools, ^cade- 
 ncies, arid Sen^aries. 
 
 A Natural History Reader. 
 
 Compiled and edited by James Johonnot, author of "A Geographical 
 Reader,-' "Principles and Practice of Teaching," etc. 
 
 The immediate success of the li Geo- 
 graphical Riadsr," by the same author, 
 has proved that books of this kind, pre- 
 pared by so capable and discriminating an 
 instructor as Professor Johonnor, meet 
 with great favor and accomplish the best 
 results. Stories of animals have an espe- 
 cial charm for young people, and the pupil's 
 interest will never flag when he is provid- 
 ed with reading-matter of this kind. His 
 mind is stored with useful and instructive 
 
 facts, and his progress in acquiring the 
 ability to read well is accelerated by Uio 
 greater stimulation given to his mental 
 faculties. 
 
 The Natural History Header is a classi- 
 fied collection of anecdotes and interesting 
 descriptions in the field of natural history 
 of a very attractive and entertaining char- 
 acter, at! from eminent writers and authors. 
 It is beautifully illustrated with numerous 
 fine engravings. 
 
 A Geographical Reader. 
 
 A Collection of Geographical Descriptions and Explanations, from the 
 best Writers iu English Literature. Classified and arranged to meet the 
 wants of Geographical Students, and the higher grades of reading classes. 
 By James Johonnot, author of " Principles and Practice of Teaching." 
 
 narrations of great literary merit, that con- 
 vey useful inlormaticn and promote gen- 
 eral culture. It conforms to the philosoph- 
 ic ideas upon which the new education is 
 based. Its selections are from the best 
 standard authorities. It is embellished 
 with numerous and appropriate illustra- 
 tions. Ten editions were gold the first year 
 after publication. 
 
 It is original and unique in conception 
 and execution. It is varied in style, and 
 treats of every variety of geographical 
 topic. It supplements the geographical 
 text-bonks, and, by giving additional inter- 
 est to the study, it leads the pupil to more 
 extensive geographical reading and re- 
 search. It is not simply a collection of dry 
 statistics and outline descriptions, but vivid 
 
 An Historical Reader. 
 
 For the Use of Classes in Academies, High-Schools, and Grammar-SchooU. 
 By Henry E. Shepherd, M. A „ Superintendent of Public Instruction, 
 Baltimore, Maryland. ^ 
 
 develop a fondness for historical stud}. 
 The book is totally devoid of sectarian or 
 partisan tendencies, the aim being cimpl/ 
 to instill a love fcr historical reading, and 
 not to suggest opinions or inculcate viewH 
 in regard to any ol those great civil and re- 
 ligious 1 evolutions whose effect and whose 
 influence must, remain open questions till 
 the last act in the historical drama shall be 
 completed. 
 
 This work consists of a collection of ex- 
 tracts representing the purest historical 
 literature that has been produced in the 
 different stages of our literary develop- 
 ment, from the time of Clarendon to the 
 era of Macaulay and Prescott, its design 
 being to present to the minds of young 
 pupils typical illustrations of classic his- 
 torical style, gathered mainly from English 
 and American writers, and to create and 
 
 Either of the above, for examination, will be mailed, post-paid, U. 
 teachers on receipt of $1.00. 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO., 
 
 i, 3, & 5 Bond Street, New York. 
 
leaflets from Stanoarii ^utbors. 
 
 BEYANT. 
 
 POEMS FROM THE 
 WORKS OF WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, 
 
 FOR HOMES, LIBRARIES, AND SCHOOLS. 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 JOSEPHINE E. HODGDON. 
 
 i 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 1, 3, and 5 BOND STREET. 
 
 1884. 
 
COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "William Cullen Bryant 7 
 
 Thanatopsis 15 
 
 The Yellow Violet 17 
 
 To a Watekfowl 19 
 
 Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood 21 
 
 The West Wind 23 
 
 October 25 
 
 November 26 
 
 A Forest Hymn 27 
 
 The Firmament 31 
 
 The Gladness of Nature 33 
 
 " i broke the spell that held me long " 34 
 
 Midsummer 35 
 
 William Tell 37 
 
 To the Fringed Gentian 39 
 
 " Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower " 41 
 
 The twenty-second of December 43 
 
 Thou, God, seest me 44 
 
 Seventy-six 45 
 
 The Battle of Bennington 46 
 
 The Antiquity of Freedom 47 
 
 The White-footed Deer 51 
 
 The Land of Dreams 53 
 
 The Planting of the Apple-Tree 55 
 
 The Snow-Shower 57 
 
 Robert of Lincoln 59 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Song of New-Year's Eve . . • 61 
 
 The Little People of the Snow 63 
 
 Abraham Lincoln 77 
 
 A Legend of St. Martin 79 
 
 The Words of the Koran 81 
 
 The Mystery of Flowers 83 
 
 The Centennial Hymn 85 
 
 The Flood of Years 87 
 
 In Memory of John Lothrop Motley 91 
 
 The Twenty-second of February 93 
 
 Fables: 94 
 
 The Elm and the Vine. 
 
 The Donkey and the Mocking-Bird. 
 
 The Caterpillar and the Butterfly. 
 
 The Spider's Web. 
 
 The Dial and the Sun. 
 
 The Eagle and the Serpent. 
 
 The Woodman and the Sandal-Tree. 
 
 The Hidden Rill. 
 
 The Cost of a Pleasure. 
 
INTRODUCTION TO THE LEAFLETS. 
 
 " Consider what you have in the smallest chosen library. A company of the wisest 
 and wittiest men that could be picked out of all civil countries, in a thousand years, have 
 set in best order the results of their learning and wisdom. The men themselves were 
 hid and inaccessible, solitary, impatient of interruptions, fenced by etiquette ; but the 
 thought which they did not uncover to their bosom friend is here written out in trans- 
 parent words to us, the strangers of another age." — Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 How can our young people be led to take pleasure in the writings of our 
 best authors ? 
 
 An attempt to answer this important inquiry is the aim of these Leaflets. 
 It is proposed, by their use in the school and the family, to develop a love for 
 the beautiful thoughts, the noble and elevating sentiments, that pervade the 
 choicest literature, and thus to turn aside that flood of pernicious reading 
 which is deluging the children of our beloved country. It is hoped that they 
 will prove effective instruments in securing the desired end, and an aid in the 
 attainment of a higher mental and moral culture. 
 
 Our best writers, intelligent teachers, and lecturers on literary subjects, 
 have given suggestions and material for tbis work, and rendered its realiza- 
 tion possible. Those who, knowing the power of a good thought well 
 expressed, have endeavored to popularize works of acknowledged merit by 
 means of copied extracts, marked passages, leaves torn from books, and other 
 expensive and time-consuming expedients, will gladly welcome this new, 
 convenient, and inexpensive arrangement of appropriate selections as helps 
 to the progress they are attempting to secure. This plan and the selections 
 used are the outgrowth of experience in the school-room, and their utility 
 and adaptation to the proposed aims have been proved. By means of these 
 sheets, each teacher can have at command a larger range of authors than is 
 otherwise possible. A few suggestions in regard to these Leaflets may not 
 be amiss : 
 
 1. They may be used for sight-reading and silent reading. 
 
 2. They may be employed for analysis of the author's meaning and lan- 
 guage, which may well be made a prominent feature of the reading-lesson, as 
 it is the best preparation for a proper rendering of the passages given. 
 
 3. They may be distributed, that each pupil may spend any spare time in 
 choosing his own favorite selection. This may afterward be used, as its char- 
 acter or the pupil's inclination suggests, for sentiment, essay, reading, recita- 
 tion, or declamation. 
 
 4. Mr. Longfellow's method, as mentioned in the sketch accompanying 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 his poems, in this series of Leaflets, may be profitably followed, as it will 
 promote a helpful interplay of thought between teacher and pupils, and lead 
 unconsciously to a love and understanding of good authors. 
 
 5. Short quotations may be given in answer to the daily roll-call. 
 
 6. Some of the selections are especially adapted to responsive and chorus 
 class-reading. 
 
 7. The lyrical poems can be sung to some familiar tunes. 
 
 8. The sketch which will be found with each series may serve as the 
 foundation for essays on the author's life and works. 
 
 9. The illustrations may be employed as subjects for language-lessons, thus 
 cultivating the powers of observation and expressiou. 
 
 All these methods combined may be made to give pleasure to the pupils' 
 friends, and make it feasible to entertain them oftener than is now the cus- 
 tom, thus creating an interest in the school and a sympathy with the author 
 whose works are the subjects of study. The foregoing is by no means a 
 necessary order, and teachers will vary from it as their own appreciation of 
 the intelligence of their pupils and the interest of the exercise shall suggest. 
 
 The object to be kept in view is, pleasantly to introduce the works of our 
 best authors to growing minds, and to develop in them a taste for the best in 
 literature, that the world of books may become to them an unfailing source 
 of inspiration and delight. 
 
 vi 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 ^KMcaw CJl^tm^oAiA^ 
 
 A few years ago there died in New York city a man standing in the 
 first rank of literature, who had made his literary reputation before Sir 
 Walter Scott began his series of the Waverley novels. He was in his prime 
 when Dickens and Thackeray first began to write, and in the full exer- 
 cise of his intellectual powers after they had laid aside forever their busy 
 
 7 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 pens. Closely identified with the national life of his native land, and having 
 a large share in originating and elevating its literature, and in shaping the 
 course of its politics, William Cullen Bryant truly merited the encomium of 
 being accounted "the most accomplished, the most distinguished, and the 
 most universally honored, citizen of the United States," and that, too, solely 
 by his genius, moral rectitude, and force of character. " He was my master 
 in verse," said Longfellow, u ten years and more my senior, and throughout 
 my whole life I have had the warmest reverential regard for him." " It is 
 certain," said Ralph Waldo Emerson, "that Bryant has written some of the 
 very best poetry that we have had in America." Bryant was born in Cum- 
 mington, a little town in Western Massachusetts, on November 3, 1794. His 
 father, Dr. Peter Bryant, was a man of rare intelligence, taste, and sagacity, 
 a practicing physician and surgeon, and one of the third generation who had 
 followed that profession. The genial doctor never realized his dream of 
 educating a child of his own for his favorite profession. He named the fu- 
 ture poet and journalist after Dr. Cullen, the famous Scotch physician, but 
 William never had any liking for his father's profession, realizing fully, as 
 he said in after-years, the unremitting toil and arduous duties of a country 
 doctor's life. William Cullen's mother was a lineal descendant of John Al- 
 den, the lieutenant of Miles Standish and the hero of one of Longfellow's 
 charming poems. She was a woman of great force of character, of personal 
 dignity, and excellent good sense. Although her education was limited to 
 the ordinary English branches, she was a great reader, and early taught her 
 child to repeat standard English poetry. When he was scarcely three years 
 old, William was made to repeat Dr. Watts's psalms and hymns. In his poem 
 called " A Lifetime," written when the scenes of childhood were memories 
 of the long past, Bryant pictures himself standing by his mother's knee and 
 repeating some of Dr. Watts's devotional verses. In a charming article, 
 written when the poet was eighty-two years old, for a leading juvenile mag- 
 azine, and also in the fragment of an autobiography, printed in Mr. Parke 
 Godwin's Life, Bryant has given the world the story of his boyish days. 
 He tells us of the system of family discipline which parents thought neces- 
 sary in order to secure obedience, and of the respect paid by the young 
 to their seniors, especially to ministers of the gospel. Of the books to which 
 he had access, eighty years ago, he tells us, some were excellent and some 
 were trash or worse; among the good he names "Sandford and Merton," 
 "Robinson Crusoe," "Pilgrim's Progress," Mrs. Barbauld's works, Watts's 
 and Cowper's poems. From a very early age, Bryant displayed a taste for 
 reading and study. His father took great pains to direct his boy to those 
 great English classics of which he had been a life-long student. The lad de- 
 lighted to pore over Pope, Gray, and Goldsmith, and soon began to write 
 verses. The varied and picturesque scenery of Western Massachusetts became 
 familiar to him from his love of out-door life and the companionship of his 
 father. Thus even from childhood his native hills, valleys, woods, and rivers, 
 
 8 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 were like old friends, and he was taught to love Nature under all her varied 
 aspects. A man of sound scholarship and refined tastes, Dr. Bryant, recog- 
 nizing the poetic gift of his son, judiciously and wisely aided in its develop- 
 ment. While he encouraged the first rude efforts of boyish genius and taught 
 the value of correctness and compression, he also trained his son "to distin- 
 guish between true poetic enthusiasm and fustian." Even from the first, 
 there was nothing forced, morbid, or immature about the young poet's verses ; 
 and he wrote as if he had already had experience. Bryant's poetical pow- 
 ers, thus early developed, remained unimpaired to an age beyond that usually 
 allotted to man. " Thanatopsis " was written in his eighteenth year ; and 
 the noble ''Ode" written for Washington's birthday, February 22, 1878, 
 in his eighty-fourth. Hence, an eminent scholar has justly said : " No one 
 will deny that in one respect, at least, Bryant's fame was entirely unique. 
 He was the author of the finest verses ever produced by any one so young, 
 and so old, as the author of ' Thanatopsis ' and of ' The Twenty-second of 
 February.' " 
 
 In 1807 President Jefferson laid an embargo on American shipping, an 
 act which w r as bitterly denounced in New England. The boy Bryant caught 
 the spirit of the times and made the hated embargo the subject of a satiri- 
 cal poem, entitled "The Embargo; or, Sketches of the Times," which was 
 published in Boston in 1808, "by a youth of thirteen." The poem was 
 favorably received, and a second edition called for. During the next few 
 years several other poems were written, undoubtedly clever, but by no 
 means characteristic of the poet's subsequent productions. In 1810, in his 
 sixteenth year, Bryant entered Williams College, and remained there for 
 two years, but was obliged to leave on account of his father's pecuniary 
 affairs, which rendered retrenchment necessary. Dr. Bryant intended to 
 send his son back to college, but was unable to do so. Of Bryant's brief col- 
 legiate career many interesting particulars have been recorded. He distin- 
 guished himself for his aptness and industry in the study of the ancient clas- 
 sics and his love for the best literature. The college afterward conferred 
 upon him the degree of A. M., and enrolled him as an alumnus. After leav- 
 ing college Bryant continued his studies at home for a time, but soon began 
 the study of law, first with Judge Howe, of Worthington, near Cummington, 
 and afterward with Mr. William Baylies, of Bridgewater. In 1815, at the 
 age of twenty-one, he was admitted to the bar. He first opened an office at 
 Plainfield, but after a time settled in Great Barrington. In the latter place 
 he passed the next nine years of his life, and there some of his well-known 
 poems were written. When the young poet went away from his native town 
 to read law, he left the manuscript of a poem behind him, which was found 
 by his father and sent by him to the " North American Review." One of 
 the editors, Richard II. Dana, read the poem carefully, and was so surprised 
 at its excellence that he doubted whether it was written on this side of the 
 Atlantic. This remarkable poem, known to all the world as "Thanatopsis," 
 
 9 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 was printed in the " North American Review " for September, 1817. " This 
 poem," says George William Curtis, " was, the first adequate poetic voice of 
 the solemn New England spirit. Moreover, it was without a harbinger in 
 our literature, and without a trace of the English masters of the hour." A 
 pleasant story is told, that when the poet's father showed " Thanatopsis " in 
 manuscript to a lady well qualified to judge of its merits, simply saying, " Oh ! 
 read that— it is Cullen's," she read the poem, raised her eyes to the good 
 doctor's face, and burst into tears, in which the father, a reserved and silent 
 man, was not ashamed to join. Six months later, in March, 1818, the young 
 poet added to his reputation by publishing a poem entitled " To a Waterfowl," 
 in the "North American Review." This exquisite piece, written in clear 
 and strong language, in melody simple and sweet, and displaying a keen and 
 accurate observation of nature, has always been a favorite, and displays some 
 of Bryant's best characteristics. 
 
 In 1821 Mr. Bryant was married to Miss Frances Fairchild, and for 
 nearly half a century she was the good angel of his life. During all these 
 years "Ms wife was his only really intimate friend, and when she died 
 he had no other. He was young, his fame was growing, and with domes- 
 tic duties, with literary studies and work, and professional and public activi- 
 ties, his tranquil days passed in the happy valley of the Housatonic." It 
 was to his wife that Bryant addressed the poem beginning, " O fairest of 
 the rural maids," "The Future Life," and "The Life that Is"; and her 
 memory and her loss are tenderly embalmed in one of the most touching 
 of his later poems, " October, 1866." On account of the interest awak- 
 ened by his published poems, and through the influence of Mr. Dana, Bry- 
 ant was invited to deliver a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at 
 Harvard College, an honor rarely conferred upon so young a man. He ac- 
 cepted, and read at Cambridge, in 1821, the longest and most elaborate poem 
 he ever wrote, entitled " The Ages." Richard H. Stoddard describes it as " a 
 rapid, comprehensive, philosophic, and picturesque summary of the history 
 of mankind from the earliest periods, a shifting panorama of good and evil 
 figures and deeds, the rising and falling of religions, kingdoms, empires, and 
 the great shapes of Greece and Rome." Thoughtful and suggestive, it stands 
 first in all the complete editions of Bryant's collected works, forming a fitting 
 introduction to the other poems. The next four years of the young poet's 
 life were more productive than any before, for some thirty of his best poems 
 were written during this time. In the mean time a little thin book of forty- 
 four pages, containing " The Ages" and others of his poems, had been pub- 
 lished, and was everywhere favorably received. It established beyond ques- 
 tion his reputation as a poet. By this time, it became generally known that 
 Bryant disliked his profession, and would welcome any relief from its irksome 
 duties. Influential friends secured a literary position for him in New York 
 city, and early in 1825 he left the Berkshire hills for the more congenial 
 occupation of journalism in the great metropolis. " Here he lived," says his 
 
 10 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 intimate friend James Grant Wilson, " from earliest youth to venerable age 
 — from thirty-one to eighty-four — in one path of honor and success." In 
 1826 Bryant became permanently connected with the " Evening Post," with 
 which his name was associated until the day of his death — more than half a 
 century afterward. To his future life-work of journalism the young editor 
 brought literary experience, solid learning, refined taste, and, even then, the 
 prestige of a well-earned reputation. Bryant was too wise a man to sup- 
 pose that poetry would ever give him a substantial living. " I should have 
 starved," he once said, "if I had been obliged to depend upon my poetry for 
 a living." As a newspaper editor and proprietor, he was a sagacious and 
 successful man of business. Thrift and strict economy were cardinal virtues 
 with him. He was thorough, watchful, and industrious in the smallest details 
 of his newspaper work. He made the "Post" an educational power among 
 its readers by diffusing scientific and practical information, and by stimulating 
 the public mind to the enjoyment of literature and art. During at least forty- 
 two of his fifty-two years of editorial service, Mr. Bryant was at his edi- 
 torial desk before eight o'clock in the morning, and left the daily impress ot 
 his character and genius in some form upon the columns of his journal. 
 These long years were most momentous in the history of this country, and 
 were passed in active aggressive work in the very center of political, intel- 
 lectual, and national activity. During all this time not only did no stain rest 
 upon his character, but he stood as a conspicuous example of all that was 
 admirable in journalism, in politics, and in private life. " He never en- 
 gaged," said John Bigelow, in his address before the Century Club, " in any 
 other business enterprise ; he never embarked in any financial speculations ; 
 he was never an officer of any other financial or industrial corporation, nor 
 did he ever accept any political office or trust." 
 
 While Bryant continued a journalist all the days of his long life, he never 
 ceased to be a poet. He earned his bread and molded public opinion with 
 his newspaper, but looked to poetry for the perpetuation of his name. He 
 never confounded the two vocations in any way, or allowed either to inter- 
 fere to any great extent with the other. In brief, he wrote his editorials in 
 the office, and his poetry in the quiet of his home. If we take into account 
 only what Bryant published in book form, he wrote comparatively little. If 
 we reckon his editorial contributions to the " Post," during fifty-two years, we 
 shall find him one of the most voluminous writers that ever lived. Some one, 
 who had every opportunity to know, has estimated that his editorials alone 
 would fill more than a hundred duodecimo volumes of five hundred pages 
 each — all this, too, written in a style always pure, clear, and forcible, and giv- 
 ing evidence of wide scholarship and profound reflection. Under Bryant's 
 sagacious and far-sighted management the "Post" became not only an influ- 
 ential and leading journal, but was also a financial success. Its editor died a 
 wealthy man. As a rest from his arduous labors, Bryant traveled occasion- 
 ally. Between the years 1834 and 1867 he made six visits to Europe, and 
 
 11 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD A UTHORS. 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 at different times made lorn? journeys through his own country. His readers 
 traced his travels by his letters to the " Evening Post," which attracted a 
 deal of attention for their keen observation and beauty of expression. Mr. 
 Bryant published occasional volumes of poetry made up of his contributions 
 to the periodicals of the day; and in 1876 a complete illustrated edition of 
 his poetical writings was issued. Under the heavy pressure of grief caused 
 by the death of his beloved wife in 1866, the veteran poet at the age of sev- 
 enty-two set himself to the formidable task of translating the " Iliad " and 
 the " Odyssey." The former occupied most of his leisure for three years, and 
 the latter about two. These translations were highly praised both at home 
 and abroad. Mr. Bryant had the peculiar talent of delivering addresses and 
 memorial orations upon the lives and works of eminent men. A volume of 
 these felicitous and appreciative addresses was published in 1872. His last 
 poem of any great length was " The Flood of Years," written in the poet's 
 eighty-second year, and showing no decay of his poetic genius. The vener- 
 able poet's last public appearance was at the Central Park, in New York city, 
 May 29, 1878, at the unveiling of a statue to Mazzini. After delivering his 
 oration in the open air, and at times exposed to the hot rays of the sun, he 
 walked to the home of his friend General Wilson. Just as he was about to 
 enter the door, the aged poet fell suddenly, striking his head on the stone 
 steps. He rallied somewhat and was able to ride to his own home. Paraly- 
 sis of his right side followed, and, on July 12, 1878, his life, after sinking like 
 a slowly-ebbing tide, came to a peaceful end. 
 
 The tributes paid to Bryant's genius by the press and the public generally 
 were immediate, warm, and sincere. The memory of the beloved poet is 
 deservedly enshrined in that universal esteem and admiration which his 
 noble life, as well as his literary achievements, had won for him. 
 
 Mr. Bryant's wealth enabled him to live surrounded by every comfort and 
 luxury. So far as he was personally concerned, he seemed to care very little 
 for them. He had three residences, a city house in New York, a country 
 house called "Cedar-mere," at Roslyn, Long Island, and the old homestead of 
 the Bryant family at Cummington, Massachusetts. Very few famous men 
 were better known by sight than the veteran editor. Day after day, and 
 year after year, he could be seen in all weathers walking down to his office in 
 the morning, and back to his house in the afternoon. He kept his vigor of 
 body and mind by temperate self-restraint, good sense, a rigid observance of 
 the laws of health, both in regard to proper sanitary arrangements and a 
 strict attention to diet, sleep, and exercise. He rose early — about half-past 
 five in winter, and generally an hour earlier in summer. A series of light 
 gymnastics lasting for an hour or more, together with a bath from head to 
 foot, followed. His food was of the simplest kind. Hominy and milk, brown 
 bread or oatmeal, with baked sweet apples and other fruit, made up his break- 
 fast. For dinner, he ate a moderate quantity of meat or fish, but generally 
 made his dinner mostly of vegetables. His supper consisted only of bread and 
 
 13 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 butter and fruit. He never drank tea or coffee, and very rarely took a glass 
 of wine. He always went to bed earlj — in town, as early as ten; in tbe 
 country, somewhat earlier. Even in the worst weather he always preferred 
 to walk rather than to ride. His senses were perfect, his eyes needed no 
 glasses, and his hearing was exquisitely fine until the day of the accident. 
 Well might those who knew him best say that, but for the accident which 
 caused his death, he would probably have become a veritable centenarian. 
 
 Such was the pure, noble, and consistent life of William Cullen Bryant. 
 His life and his grand life-work in literature all testify to his being truly and 
 essentially a great and good man. 
 
 14 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 To him who in the love of Nature 
 
 holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, 
 
 she speaks 
 A various language ; for his gayer 
 
 hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a 
 
 smile 
 And eloquence of beauty, and she 
 
 glides 
 Into his darker musings, with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals 
 
 away 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. 
 
 When thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a 
 
 blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and 
 
 pall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the nar- 
 row 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 
 
 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, surren- 
 dering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 To mix forever with the elements, 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the 
 
 rude swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. 
 
 The oak 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce 
 
 thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting- 
 place 
 
 Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst 
 thou wish 
 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt 
 lie down 
 
 With patriarchs of the infant world 
 — with kings, 
 
 The powerful of the earth — the wise, 
 the good, 
 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no i Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages 
 more past, 
 
 15 
 
FLBm 
 
 LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun — 
 
 the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness be- 
 tween ; 
 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 gold- 
 en 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 wil- 
 derness, 
 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 glides away, the sons of men, , 
 
 The youth in life's fresh spring, andl 
 he who goes 
 
 In th£ full strength of years, matron i 
 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 fol- 
 low them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons } 
 
 comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, which i 
 
 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, sus- 
 tained 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. 
 
 16 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
 
 When beechen buds begin to swell, 
 And woods the blue-bird's warble 
 know, 
 The yellow violet's modest bell 
 Peeps from the last year's leaves 
 below. 
 
 Ere russet fields their green resume, 
 Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 
 
 To meet thee, when thy faint per- 
 fume 
 Alone is in the virgin air. 
 
 Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
 First plant thee in the watery 
 mould, 
 
 And I have seen thee blossoming 
 Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. 
 
 17 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Thy parent sun, who bade thee view, 
 Pale skies, and chilling moisture 
 sip, 
 Has bathed thee in his own bright 
 hue, 
 And streaked with jet thy glow- 
 ing lip. 
 
 Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
 And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 
 
 Unapt the passing view to meet, 
 When loftier flowers are flaunting 
 nigh. 
 
 Oft, in the sunless April day, 
 Thy early smile has stayed my 
 walk: 
 
 But midst the gorgeous blooms of 
 May, 
 I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 
 
 So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
 The friends in darker fortunes 
 tried. 
 I copied them — but I regret 
 
 That I should ape the ways of 
 pride. 
 
 And when again the genial hour 
 Awakes the painted tribes of light, 
 
 I'll not o'erlook the modest flower 
 That made the woods of April 
 bright. 
 
 18 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL. 
 
 Whithee, 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. 
 
 19 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned, 
 At that far height, the 'cold, thin 
 
 atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the wel- 
 come 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. 
 
 20 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD. 
 
 Stbangee, if thou hast learned a 
 
 truth which needs 
 No school of long experience, that 
 
 the world 
 Is full of guilt and misery, and hast 
 
 seen 
 Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, 
 
 and cares, 
 To tire thee of it, enter this wild 
 
 wood 
 And view the haunts of Nature. 
 
 The calm shade 
 
 Shall bring a kindred calm, and the 
 
 sweet breeze 
 That makes the green leaves dance, 
 
 shall waft a balm 
 To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find 
 
 nothing here 
 Of all that pained thee in the haunts 
 
 of men, 
 And made thee loathe thy life. The 
 
 primal curse 
 Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning 
 
 earth, 
 
 21 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 But not in vengeance. God hath 
 
 yoked to guilt 
 Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, 
 
 these shades 
 Are still the abodes of gladness ; the 
 
 thick roof 
 Of green and stirring branches is 
 
 alive 
 And musical with birds, that sing 
 
 and sport 
 In wantonness of spirit; while be- 
 low 
 The squirrel, with raised paws and 
 
 form erect, 
 Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects 
 
 in the shade 
 Try their thin wings and dance in 
 
 the warm beam 
 That waked them into life. Even 
 
 the green trees 
 Partake the deep contentment; as 
 
 they bend 
 To the soft winds, the sun from the 
 
 blue sky 
 Looks in and sheds a blessing on the 
 
 scene. 
 Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower 
 
 seems to enjoy 
 Existence than the winged plun- 
 derer 
 
 That sucks its sweets. The mossy 
 
 rocks themselves, 
 And the old and ponderous trunks of 
 
 prostrate trees 
 That lead from knoll to knoll a causey 
 
 rude 
 Or bridge the sunken brook, and their 
 
 dark roots, 
 With all their earth upon them, twist- 
 ing high, 
 Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivu- 
 let 
 Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping 
 
 o'er its bed 
 Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the 
 
 rocks, 
 Seems, with continuous laughter, to 
 
 rejoice 
 In its own being. Softly tread the 
 
 marge, 
 Lest from her midway perch thou 
 
 scare the wren 
 That dips her bill in water. The 
 
 cool wind, 
 That stirs the stream in play, shall 
 
 come to thee, 
 Like one that loves thee nor will let 
 
 thee pass 
 Ungreeted, and shall give its light 
 
 embrace. 
 
 22 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE WEST WIND. 
 
 Beneath the forest's skirt I rest, 
 Whose branching pines rise dark 
 and high, 
 
 And hear the breezes of the West 
 Among the thread-like foliage sigh . 
 
 Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of 
 woe? 
 Is not thy home among the flow- 
 ers? 
 Do not the bright June roses blow, 
 To meet thy kiss at morning hours? 
 
 And lo! thy glorious realm out- 
 spread — 
 Yon stretching valleys, green and 
 
 gay, 
 
 jAnd yon free hill-tops, o'er whose 
 head 
 The loose white clouds are borne 
 away. 
 
 And there the full broad river runs, 
 And many a fount wells fresh and 
 sweet, 
 
 To cool thee when the mid-day suns 
 Have made thee faint beneath their 
 heat. 
 
 Thou wind of joy, and youth, and 
 love; 
 Spirit of the new-wakened year ! 
 The sun in his blue realm above 
 Smooths a bright path when thou 
 art here. 
 
 In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, 
 
 The wooing ring-dove in the shade ; 
 
 On thy soft breath, the new-fledged 
 
 bird 
 
 Takes wing, half happy, half 
 
 afraid. 
 
 Ah ! thou art like our wayward 
 race; — 
 When not a shade of pain or ill 
 Dims the bright smile of Nature's 
 face, 
 Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur 
 still. 
 
 23 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath ! 
 When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 
 And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, 
 
 And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 
 25 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Wind of the sunny south ! oh, still delay 
 In the gay woods and in the golden air, 
 Like to a good old age released from care, 
 
 Journeying, in long serenity, away. 
 
 In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 
 
 Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks, 
 And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, 
 
 And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 
 
 And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, 
 Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 
 
 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 thy ray. 
 Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear 
 The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. 
 26 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 A FOREST HYMN. 
 
 The groves were God's first temples. 
 Ere man learned 
 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the archi- 
 trave, 
 
 And spread the roof above them — 
 ere he framed 
 
 The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
 
 The sound of anthems; in the dark- 
 ling wood, 
 
 Amid the cool and silence, he knelt 
 down, 
 
 And offered to the Mightiest solemn 
 
 thanks 
 And supplication. For his simple 
 
 heart 
 Might not resist the sacred influence 
 Which, from the stilly twilight ol 
 
 the place, 
 And from the gray old trunks that 
 
 high in heaven 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and 
 
 from the sound 
 
 27 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Of the invisible breath that swayed Report not. No fantastic carvings 
 
 at once show 
 
 All their green tops, stole over him, The boast of our vain race to change 
 
 and bowed the form 
 
 His spirit with the thought of bound- Of thy fair works. But thou art 
 
 less power 
 And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, 
 
 neglect 
 God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
 Only among the crowd, and under 
 
 roofs 
 That our frail hands have raised? 
 
 Let me, at least, 
 Here, iD the shadow of this aged wood, 
 Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it 
 
 find 
 Acceptance in His ear. 
 
 Father, thy hand 
 
 Hath reared these venerable columns, 
 thou 
 
 Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou 
 didst look down 
 
 Upon the naked earth, and, forth- 
 with, rose 
 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They, 
 in thy sun, 
 
 Budded, and shook their green leaves 
 in thy breeze. 
 
 And shot toward heaven. The cen- 
 tury-living crow 
 
 Whose birth was in their tops, grew 
 old and died 
 
 Among their branches, till, at last, 
 they stood, 
 
 here — thou fill'st 
 The solitude. Thou art in the soft 
 
 winds 
 That run along the summit of these 
 
 trees 
 In music; thou art in the cooler 
 
 breath 
 That from the inmost darkness of 
 
 the place 
 Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky 
 
 trunks, the ground, 
 The fresh moist ground, are all in- 
 stinct with thee. 
 Here is continual worship; — Nature, 
 
 here, 
 In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 
 Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, 
 
 around, 
 From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
 Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 
 
 midst its herbs, 
 Wells softly forth and wandering 
 
 steeps the roots 
 Of half the mighty forest, tells no 
 
 tale 
 Of all the good it does. Thou hast 
 
 not left 
 Thyself without a witness, in the 
 
 shades, 
 Of thy perfections. Grandeur, 
 
 strength, and grace 
 
 As now they stand, massy, and tall, j Are here to speak of thee. This 
 
 and dark. 
 
 mighty oak — 
 
 Fit shrine for humble worshipper to I By whose immovable stem I stand 
 
 and seem 
 Almost annihilated — not a prince, 
 In all that proud old world beyond 
 
 the deep, 
 E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
 
 hold 
 Communion with his Maker. These 
 
 dim vaults, 
 These winding aisles, of human pomp 
 
 or pride 
 
 28 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 Wears the green coronal of leaves Is beauty, such as blooms not in the 
 
 with which glare 
 
 Thy hand has graced him. Nestled I Of the broad sun. That delicate 
 
 at his root forest flower. 
 
 £V~ ... 
 
 
 w&zmZ 
 
 With scented breath and look so like 
 
 a smile, 
 Seems, as it issues from the shapeless 
 
 mould, 
 
 An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
 A visible token of the upholding Love, 
 That are the soul of this great uni- 
 verse. 
 
 29 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 My heart is awed within me when 
 
 I think 
 Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
 In silence, round me — the perpetual 
 
 work 
 Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
 Forever. Written on thy works I read 
 The lesson of thy own eternity. 
 Lo! all grow old and die — but see 
 
 again, 
 How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
 Youth presses— ever gay and beauti- 
 ful youth 
 In all its beautiful forms. These 
 
 lofty trees 
 Wave not less proudly that their 
 
 ancestors 
 Moulder beneath them. Oh, there 
 
 is not lost 
 One of earth's charms: upon her 
 
 bosom yet, 
 After the flight of untold centuries, 
 The freshness of her far beginning lies 
 And yet shall lie. Life mocks the 
 
 idle hate 
 Of his arch-enemy Death — yea, seats 
 
 himself 
 Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepul- 
 chre, 
 And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
 Makes his own nourishment. For he 
 
 came forth 
 From thine own bosom, and shall 
 
 have no end. 
 
 There have been holy men who 
 
 hid themselves 
 Deep in the woody wilderness, and 
 
 gave 
 Their lives to thought and prayer, 
 
 till they outlived 
 The generation born with them, nor 
 
 seemed 
 
 Less aged than the hoary trees and 
 rocks 
 
 Around them ; — and there have been 
 holy men 
 
 Who deemed it were not well to pass 
 life thus. 
 
 But let me often to these solitudes 
 
 Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
 
 My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 
 
 The passions, at thy plainer footsteps 
 shrink 
 
 And tremble and are still. O God! 
 when thou 
 
 Dost scare the world with tempests, 
 set on fire 
 
 The heavens with falling thunder- 
 bolts, or fill, 
 
 With all the waters of the firmament, 
 
 The swift dark whirlwind that up- 
 roots the woods 
 
 And drow T ns the villages; when, at 
 thy call, 
 
 Uprises the great deep and throws 
 himself 
 
 Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
 
 Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight 
 
 Of these tremendous tokens of thy 
 power, 
 
 His pride, and lays his strifes and 
 follies by ? 
 
 Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy 
 face 
 
 Spare me and mine, nor let us need 
 the wrath 
 
 Of the mad unchained elements to 
 teach 
 
 Who rules them. Be it ours to medi- 
 tate, 
 
 In these calm shades, thy milder 
 majesty, 
 
 And to the beautiful order of thy works 
 
 Learn to conform the order of our 
 lives. 
 
 30 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE FIRMAMENT. 
 
 Ay ! gloriously thou standest there, 
 
 Beautiful, boundless firmament! 
 That, swelling wide o'er earth and 
 air, 
 And round the horizon bent, 
 With thy bright vault, and sapphire 
 
 wall, 
 Dost overhang and circle all. 
 
 Far, far below thee, tall gray trees 
 Arise, and piles built up of old. 
 
 And hills, whose ancient summits 
 freeze 
 In the fierce light and cold. 
 The eagle soars his utmost height, 
 Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. 
 
 Thou hast thy frowns — with thee on 
 high 
 
 The storm has made his airy seat, 
 Beyond that soft blue curtain lie 
 
 His stores of hail and sleet. 
 
 31 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Thence the consuming lightnings 
 
 break, 
 There the strong hurricanes awake. 
 
 Yet art thou prodigal of smiles- 
 Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are 
 stern. 
 Earth sends, from all her thousand 
 isles, 
 A shout at their return. 
 The glory that comes down from thee, 
 Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea. 
 
 The sud, the gorgeous sun is thine, 
 The pomp that brings and shuts the 
 day, 
 The clouds that round him change 
 and shine, 
 The airs that fan his way. 
 Thence look the thoughtful stars, and 
 
 there 
 The meek moon walks the silent air. 
 
 The sunny Italy may boast 
 , The beauteous tints that flush her 
 
 skies, 
 And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 
 
 May thy blue pillars rise. 
 I only know how fair they stand 
 Around my own beloved land. 
 
 And they are fair — a charm is theirs, 
 That earth, the proud green earth, 
 has not, 
 
 With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 
 That haunt her sweetest spot. 
 
 We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 
 
 And read of Heaven's eternal year. 
 
 Oh, when, amid the throng of men, 
 The heart grows sick of hollow 
 mirth, 
 
 How willingly we turn us then 
 Away from this cold earth, 
 
 And look into thy azure breast, 
 
 For seats of innocence and rest! 
 
 Think not that thou and I 
 Are here the only worshippers to-day, 
 
 Beneath this glorious sky, 
 Mid the soft airs that o'er the meadows play ; 
 
 These airs, whose breathing stirs 
 The fresh grass, are our fellow- worshippers. 
 
 See, as they pass, they swing 
 The censers of a thousand flowers that bend 
 
 O'er the young herbs of spring, 
 And the sweet odors like a prayer ascend, 
 
 While, passing thence, the breeze 
 Wakes the grave anthem of the forest-trees. 
 
 From Our Fellow -Worshippers. 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 
 
 Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 
 When our mother Nature laughs 
 around ; 
 When even the deep blue heavens 
 look glad, 
 And gladness breathes from the 
 blossoming ground ? 
 
 There are notes of joy from the hang- 
 bird and wren, 
 And the gossip of swallows through 
 all the sky ; 
 
 The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by 
 his den. 
 And the wilding bee hums merrily 
 by. 
 
 The clouds are at play in the azure 
 space 
 And their shadows at play on the 
 bright- green vale, 
 And here they stretch to the frolic 
 chase, 
 And there they roll on the easy gale. 
 
 33 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 There's a dance of leaves in that 
 aspen bower, 
 There's a titter of winds in that 
 beech en tree, 
 There's a smile on the fruit, and a 
 smile on the flower, 
 And a laugh from the brook that 
 runs to the sea. 
 
 And look at the broad-faced sun, 
 how he smiles 
 On the dewy earth that smiles in 
 his ray, 
 On the leaping waters and gay young 
 isles ! 
 Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom 
 away. 
 
 I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG." 
 
 I beoke the spell that held me long, 
 The dear, dear witchery of song. 
 I said, the poet's idle lore 
 Shall waste my prime of years no 
 
 more, 
 For Poetry, though heavenly born, 
 Consorts with poverty and scorn. 
 
 I broke the spell — nor deemed its 
 
 power 
 Could fetter me another hour. 
 Ah, thoughtless ! how could I forget 
 
 j Its causes were around me yet? 
 For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, 
 Was Nature's everlasting smile. 
 
 Still came and lingered on my sight 
 Of flowers and streams the bloom 
 
 and light, 
 And glory of the stars and sun ; — 
 And these and poetry are one. 
 They, ere the world had held me 
 
 long, 
 Recalled me to the love of song. 
 34 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 MIDSUMMER. 
 
 A power is on the earth and in the j The herd beside the shaded fountain 
 air pants ; 
 From which the vital spirit shrinks I For life is driven from all the land- 
 afraid, scape brown ; 
 And shelters him, in nooks of deep- The bird has sought his tree, the 
 est shade, snake his den, 
 From the hot steam and from the fiery The trout floats dead in the hot 
 
 glare. stream, and men 
 
 Look forth upon the earth — her thou- Drop by the sun-stroke in the popu- 
 
 sand plants lous town ; 
 
 Are smitten; even the dark sun- As if the Day of Fire had dawned, 
 
 loving maize and sent 
 
 Faints in the field beneath the tor- j Its deadly breath into the firma- 
 
 rid blaze ; ment. 
 
 35 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 WILLIAM TELL. 
 
 Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, 
 but thee, 
 TELL,-of the iron heart ! they could 
 
 not tame ! 
 For thou wert of the mountains; 
 they proclaim 
 lie everlasting creed of liberty. 
 ^at creed is written on the un- 
 trampled snow, 
 Thundered by torreDts which no 
 
 power can hold, 
 Save that of God, when He sends 
 forth His cold. 
 
 And breathed by winds that through 
 
 the free heaven blow. 
 Thou, while thy prison-walls were 
 dark around, 
 Didst meditate the lesson Nature 
 
 taught, 
 And to thy brief captivity was 
 brought 
 A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 
 The bitter cup they mingled, 
 
 strengthened thee 
 For the great work to set thy 
 country free. 
 
 37 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 ' \x i 
 
 TO THE FKINGED GENTIAN. 
 
 Thou blossom bright with autumn 
 
 dew, 
 And colored with the heaven's own 
 
 blue, 
 That openest when the quiet light 
 Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 
 
 Thou comest not when violets lean 
 O'er wandering brooks and springs 
 
 unseen, 
 Or columbines, in purple dressed, 
 Nod ,o'er the ground- bird's hidden 
 
 nest. 
 
 Thou waitest late and com'st alone, 
 When woods are bare and birds are 
 flown, 
 
 And frosts and shortening days por- 
 tend 
 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. 
 
 39 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE FLOWER." 
 
 Innocent child and snow - white 
 
 flower! 
 Well are ye paired in your opening 
 
 hour. 
 Thus should the pure and the lovely 
 
 meet, 
 Stainless with stainless, and sweet 
 
 with sweet. 
 
 White as those leaves, just blown 
 
 apart, 
 Are the folds of thy own young 
 
 heart ; 
 
 Guilty passion and cankering care 
 Never have left their traces there. 
 
 Artless one! though thou gazest now 
 O'er the white blossom with earnest 
 
 brow, 
 Soon will it tire thy childish eye ; 
 Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. 
 
 Throw it aside in thy weary hour, 
 Throw to the ground the fair white 
 
 flower ; 
 Yet, as thy tender years depart, 
 Keep that white and innocent heart. 
 
 41 
 

BRYANT. 
 
 THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. 
 
 Wild was the day; the wintry sea 
 Moaned sadly on New-England's 
 strand, 
 
 When first the thoughtful and the 
 free, 
 Our fathers, trod the desert land. 
 
 43 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 They little thought how pure a light, 
 With years, should gather round 
 that day ; 
 How love should keep their memories 
 bright, 
 How wide a realm their sons should 
 sway. 
 
 Green are their bays ; but greener still 
 Shall round their spreading fame 
 be wreathed, 
 
 And regions, now untrod, shall 
 thrill 
 With reverence when their names 
 are breathed. 
 
 Till where the sun, with softer 
 fires, 
 Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep, 
 The children of the pilgrim sires 
 This hallowed day like us shall 
 keep. 
 
 "THOU, GOD, SEEST ME." 
 
 When this song of praise shall cease, 
 Let thy children, Lord, depart 
 
 With the blessing of thy peace 
 And thv love in everv heart. 
 
 Oh, where'er our path may lie, 
 Father, let us not forget 
 
 That we walk beneath thine eye, 
 That thy care upholds us yet. 
 
 Blind are we, and weak, and frail; 
 
 Be thine aid forever near ; 
 May the fear to sin prevail 
 Over every other fear. 
 44 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 SEVENTY-SIX. 
 
 What heroes from the woodland 
 sprung, 
 When, through the fresh-awakened 
 land, 
 The thrilling cry of freedom rung 
 And to the work of warfare strung 
 The yeoman's iron hand ! 
 
 Hills flung the cry to hills around, 
 And ocean - mart replied to 
 mart, 
 And streams, whose springs were yet 
 
 unfound, 
 Pealed far away the startling sound 
 Into the forest's heart. 
 
 45 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Then marched the brave from rocky 
 steep, 
 
 From mountain-river swift and cold; 
 The borders of the stormy deep, 
 The vales where gathered waters sleep, 
 
 Sent up the strong and bold. — 
 
 As if the very earth again 
 
 Grew quick with God's creating 
 breath, 
 And, from the sods of grove and glen, 
 Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 
 
 To battle to the death. 
 
 The wife, whose babe first smiled 
 that day, 
 The fair fond bride of yestereve, 
 
 And aged sire and matron gray, 
 Saw the loved warriors haste away, 
 "And deemed it sin to grieve. 
 
 Already had the strife begun ; 
 
 Already blood, on Concord's plain, 
 Along the springing grass had run, 
 And blood had flowed at Lexington, 
 
 Like brooks of April rain. 
 
 That death - stain on the vernal 
 sward 
 Hallowed to freedom all the 
 shore ; 
 In fragments fell the yoke abhorred — 
 The footstep of a foreign lord 
 Profaned the soil no more. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON. 
 
 On this fair valley's grassy breast 
 The calm, sweet rays of summer rest, 
 And dove-like peace divinely broods 
 On its smooth lawns and solemn 
 woods. 
 
 A century since, in flame and smoke, 
 The storm of battle o'er ft broke ; 
 And ere the invader turned and fled, 
 These pleasant fields were strown 
 with dead. 
 
 Stark, quick to act and bold to dare, 
 And Warner's mountain band were 
 
 there ; 
 And Allen, who had flung the pen 
 Aside to lead the Berkshire men. 
 
 With fiery onset — blow on blow — 
 They rushed upon the embattled foe, 
 
 And swept his squadrons from the 
 
 vale, 
 Like leaves before the autumn gale. 
 
 Oh! never may the purple stain 
 Of combat blot these fields again, 
 Nor this fair valley ever cease 
 To wear the placid smile of peace. 
 
 But we, beside this battle-field, 
 Will plight the vow that ere we yield 
 The right for which our fathers bled, 
 Our blood shall steep the ground we 
 tread. 
 
 And men shall hold the memory dear 
 Of those who fought for freedom 
 
 here, 
 And guard the heritage they won 
 While these green hill-sides feel the 
 
 sun. 
 
 
 46 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 >%v 
 
 
 THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Heee are old trees, tall oaks, and I Was never trenched by spade, and 
 gnarled pines, flowers spring up 
 
 That stream with gray-green mosses ; | Unsown, and die ungathered. It is 
 here the ground sweet 
 
 47 
 
LEAFLETSTFROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 To linger here, among the flitting birds 
 And leaping squirrel*, wandering 
 
 brooks, and winds 
 That shake the leaves, and scatter, 
 
 as they pass, 
 A fragrance from the cedars, thickly 
 
 set 
 With pale -blue berries. 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. 
 
 Feeedom ! thou art not, as poets 
 
 dream, 
 A fair young girl, with light and 
 
 delicate limbs, 
 And v 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 
 
 mailed 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 bis swart armorers, by a thou- 
 sand 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 op- 
 pressor 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 
 
 sat'st 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 furrow on the mountain- 
 side, 
 Soft with the deluge. Tyranny him- 
 self, 
 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 fast- 
 
 48 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 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 grace- 
 ful words 
 
 To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, 
 by stealth, 
 
 Twine round thee threads of steel, 
 
 That grow to fetters ; or bind down 
 
 thy arms 
 With chains concealed in chaplets. 
 
 Oh ! not yet 
 Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor 
 
 lay by 
 Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! 
 
 close thy lids 
 
 49 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 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 for- 
 est-trees 
 Were young upon the un violated earth, 
 And yet the moss-stains on the rock 
 
 were new, 
 Beheld thy glorious childhood, and 
 rejoiced. 
 
 50 
 
BRYAXT. 
 
 
 THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. 
 
 It was a hundred years ago, 
 When, by the woodland ways, 
 
 The traveller saw the wild - deer 
 drink, 
 Or crop the birchen sprays. 
 
 Beneath a hill, whose rocky side 
 O'erbrowed a grassy mead, 
 
 And fenced a cottage from the 
 wind, 
 A deer was wont to feed. 
 
 She only came when on the cliffs 
 The evening moonlight lay, 
 
 And no man knew the secret haunts 
 In which she walked by day. 
 
 White were her feet, her forehead 
 showed 
 
 A spot of silvery white, 
 That seemed to glimmer like a star 
 
 In autumn's hazy night. 
 
 And here, when sang the whippoorwill, 
 She cropped the sprouting leaves, 
 
 And here her rustling steps were 
 heard 
 On still October eves. 
 
 51 
 
*LFT^. 
 
 LEAFLETJTFROM standard authors. 
 
 But when the broad midsummer moon 
 Kose o'er that grassy lawn, 
 
 Beside the silver-footed deer 
 There grazed a spotted fawn. 
 
 The cottage dame forbade her son 
 
 To aim the rifle here ; 
 "It were a sin," she said, "to harm 
 
 Or fright that friendly deer. 
 
 " This spot has been my pleasant home 
 
 Ten peaceful years and more ; 
 And ever, when the moonlight shines, 
 . She feeds before our door. 
 
 "The red -men say that here she 
 walked 
 A thousand moons ago ; 
 They never raise the war - whoop 
 here, 
 And never twang the bow. 
 
 " I love to watch her as she feeds, 
 
 And think that all is well 
 While such a gentle creature haunts 
 
 The place in which we dwell. " 
 
 The youth obeyed, and sought for 
 game 
 
 In forests far away, 
 Where, deep in silence and in moss, 
 
 The ancient woodland lay. 
 
 But once, in autumn's golden time 
 He ranged the wild in vain, 
 
 Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, 
 And wandered home again. 
 
 The crescent moon and crimson eve 
 Shone with a mingling light ; 
 
 The deer, upon the grassy mead, 
 Was feeding full in sight. 
 
 He raised the rifle to his eye, 
 And from the cliffs around 
 
 A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, 
 Gave back its deadly sound. 
 
 Away, into the neighboring wood, 
 The startled creature flew, 
 
 And crimson drops at morning lay 
 Amid the glimmering dew. 
 
 Next evening shone the waxing 
 moon 
 
 As brightly as before ; 
 The deer upon the grassy mead 
 
 Was seen again no more. 
 
 But ere that crescent moon was 
 old, 
 
 By night the red-men came, 
 And burnt the cottage to the ground, 
 
 And slew the youth and dame. 
 
 Now woods have overgrown the 
 
 mead, 
 
 And hid the cliffs from sight ; 
 
 There shrieks the hovering hawk at 
 
 noon, 
 
 And prowls the fox at night. 
 
 52 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 mm 
 
 THE LAND OF DREAMS. 
 
 A mighty realm is the Land of 
 Dreams, 
 
 »With steeps that hang in the twi- 
 light sky, 
 And weltering oceans and trailing 
 streams, 
 
 I That gleam where the dusky valleys 
 lie. 
 : 
 
 it over its shadowy border flow 
 Iweet rays from the world of end- 
 less morn, 
 
 And the nearer mountains catch the 
 glow, 
 And flowers in the nearer fields 
 are born. 
 
 The souls of the happy dead repair, 
 From their bowers of light, to that 
 bordering land, 
 And walk in the fainter glory 
 there, 
 With the souls of the living hand 
 in hand. 
 
 53 
 
LEAFLEm+£ROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 One calm sweet smile, in that shad- j The tears on whose cheeks are but 
 
 owy sphere, 
 From eyes that open on earth no 
 
 more — 
 One warning word from a voice once 
 
 dear — 
 How they rise in the memory o'er 
 
 and o'er ! 
 
 Far off from those hills that shine 
 with day 
 And fields that bloom in the 
 heavenly gales, 
 The Land of Dreams goes stretching 
 away 
 To dimmer mountains and darker 
 vales. 
 
 the shower 
 That freshens the blooms of early 
 May! 
 
 Thine eyes are closed, and over thy 
 brow 
 Pass thoughtful shadows and joy- 
 ous gleams, 
 And I know, by thy moving lips, that 
 now 
 Thy spirit strays in the Land of 
 Dreams. 
 
 Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy 
 feet! 
 O keep where that beam of Para- 
 dise falls : 
 
 There lie the chambers of guilty de i And only wander where thou mayst 
 light, meet 
 
 There walk the specters of guilty 
 
 fear, 
 And soft low voices, that float 
 
 through the night, 
 Are whispering sin in the helpless 
 
 ear. 
 
 The blessed ones from its shining 
 walls ! 
 
 So shalt thou come from the Land of 
 Dreams, 
 With love and peace to this world 
 of strife : 
 
 Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening j And the light which over that border 
 flower, streams 
 
 Scarce weaned from the love of Shall lie on the path of thy daily 
 childish play ! life. 
 
 54 
 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. 
 
 Come, let us plant the apple-tree. 
 Cleave the tough greensward with 
 
 the spade ; 
 Wide let its hollow bed be made; 
 There gently lay the roots, and there 
 Sift the dark mould with kindly 
 care, 
 
 And press it o'er them tenderly, 
 As, round the sleeping infant's feet, 
 "We softly fold the cradle-sheet ; 
 
 So plant we the apple-tree. 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
 
 Buds, which the breath of summer 
 days 
 
 Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 
 
 Boughs where the thrush, with crim- 
 son breast, 
 
 Shall haunt and sing and hide her 
 nest; 
 
 
 We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
 A shadow for the noontide hour, 
 A shelter from the summer shower, 
 
 When we plant the apple-tree. 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree? 
 Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
 To load the May - wind's restless 
 
 wings, 
 When, from the orchard - row, he 
 
 pours 
 Its fragrance through our open doors; 
 
 A world of blossoms for the bee, 
 Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, 
 For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 
 
 We plant with the apple-tree. 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree? 
 Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
 And redden in the August noon, 
 
 55 
 
LEAFLl?ym*FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Girls, 
 
 Shall 
 
 And drop, when gentle airs come by, 
 That fan the blue September sky, 
 While children come, with cries of 
 glee, 
 And seek them where the fragrant 
 
 grass 
 Betrays their bed to those who pass, 
 At the foot of the apple-tree. 
 
 And when, above this apple-tree, 
 The winter stars are quivering bright, 
 And winds go howling through the 
 night, 
 
 whose young eyes o'erflow 
 with mirth, 
 
 peel its fruit by cottage - 
 hearth, 
 And guests in prouder homes shall 
 see, 
 Heaped with the grape of Cintra's 
 
 vine 
 And golden orange of the line, 
 The fruit of the apple-tree. 
 
 The fruitage of this apple-tree 
 Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
 Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 
 Where men shall wonder at the 
 
 view, 
 And ask in what fair groves they 
 grew ; 
 And sojourners beyond the sea 
 Shall think of childhood's careless day, 
 And long, long hours of summer 
 play. 
 In the shade of the apple-tree. 
 
 Each year shall give this apple-tree 
 A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
 4- deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 
 And loosen, when the frost-clouds 
 
 lower, 
 The crisp brown leaves in thicker 
 shower. 
 The years shall come and pass, but 
 we 
 Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 
 The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, 
 In the boughs of the apple-tree. 
 
 And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
 Oh, when its aged branches throw 
 Thin shadows on the ground below, 
 Shall fraud and force and iron will 
 Oppress the weak and helpless still? 
 
 What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
 Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
 Of those who live when length of 
 years 
 
 Is wasting this little apple-tree? 
 
 "Who planted this old apple- 
 tree ? " 
 The children of that distant day 
 Thus to some aged man shall say; 
 And, gazing on its mossy stem, 
 The gray-haired man shall answer 
 them : 
 " A poet of the land was he, 
 Born in the rude but good old times; 
 'Tis said he made some quaint old 
 rhymes, 
 On planting the apple-tree." 
 
 56 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE SNOW-SHOWER. 
 
 Stand here by my side and turn, I 
 pray, 
 On the lake below, thy gentle 
 eyes; 
 
 57 
 
 The clouds hang over it, heavy and 
 gray, 
 And dark and silent the water 
 lies; 
 
leaf£E9b*from standard authors, 
 
 Each mated flake 
 Soon sinks in the dark and silen 
 lake. 
 
 And out of that frozen mist the snow 
 In wavering flakes begins to flow ; 
 Flake after flake 
 They sink in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 See how in a living swarm they j L ° ! while we are gazing, in swifte 
 
 haste 
 Stream down the snows, till the 
 
 : 
 
 come 
 From the chambers beyond that 
 
 misty veil ; air is white, 
 
 Some hover awhile in air, and some | As, myriads by myriads madly chased, 
 Rush prone from the sky like sum- I They fling themselves from their 
 
 mer hail. 
 
 shadowy height. 
 The fair, frail creatures of middle 
 
 sky, 
 What speed they make, with their 
 
 graves so nigh ; 
 
 Flake after flake, 
 To lie in the dark and silent lake! 
 
 I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; 
 
 They turn to me in sorrowful 
 thought; 
 Thou thinkest of friends, the good 
 and dear, 
 Who were for a time, and now are 
 not; 
 Like these fair children of cloud and 
 frost. 
 Flake after flake— ! Thafc S listen a moment and then are 
 
 All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, 
 
 Meet, and are still in the depths be- 
 low; 
 
 Flake after flake 
 
 Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Here delicate snow-stars, out of the 
 cloud, 
 Come floating downward in airy 
 play, 
 
 Like spangles dropped from the 
 glistening crowd 
 That whiten by night the milky 
 way; 
 
 There broader and burlier masses 
 fall; 
 
 The sullen water buries them all — 
 
 All drowned in the dark and silent 
 lake. 
 
 And some, as on tender wings they 
 
 glide 
 From their chilly birth-cloud, dim 
 
 and gray, 
 Are joined in their fall, and, side by 
 
 side, 
 Come clinging along their unsteady 
 
 way; 
 As friend with friend, or husband 
 
 with wife, 
 Makes hand in hand the passage of 
 
 life; 
 
 lost, 
 
 Flake after flake — 
 All lost in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Yet look again, for the clouds divide; 
 A gleam of blue on the water lies; 
 And far away, on the mountain-side, 
 A sunbeam falls from the opening 
 skies, 
 But the hurrying host that flew be- 
 tween 
 The cloud and the water, no more is 
 seen ; 
 
 Flake after flake, 
 At rest in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 58 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 
 
 Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 
 | Near to the nest of his little dame, 
 )ver 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; 
 
 59 
 
LEAlTm^FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 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. 
 Ohee, 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 hus- 
 band 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 ! 
 
 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 flies, and we sing as he goes: 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 When you can pipe that merry old 
 
 strain, 
 Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 60 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay — 
 Stay till the good old year, 
 
 So long companion of our way, 
 Shakes hands, and leaves us here. 
 Oh stay, oh stay, 
 
 One little hour, and then away. 
 
 The year, whose hopes were high 
 and strong, 
 Has now no hopes to wake; 
 Yet one hour more of jest and song 
 For his familiar sake. 
 
 Oh stay, oh stay, 
 One mirthful hour, and then away. 
 
 The kindly year, his liberal hands 
 
 Have lavished all his store. 
 And shall we turn from where he 
 stands, 
 Because he gives no more? 
 Oh stay, oh stay, 
 One grateful hour, and then away. 
 
 j Days brightly came and calmly went. 
 While yet he was our guest; 
 How cheerfully the week was spent ! 
 How sweet the seventh day's rest! 
 Oh stay, oh stay, 
 One golden hour, and then away. 
 
 Dear friends were with us, some who 
 sleep 
 Beneath the coffin-lid: 
 What pleasant memories we keep 
 Of all they said and did ! 
 Oh stay, oh stay, 
 One tender hour, and then away. 
 
 Even while we sing, he smiles his 
 last, 
 And leaves our sphere behind. 
 The good old year is with the past; 
 Oh be the new as kind! 
 Oh stay, oh stay, 
 One parting strain, and then away. 
 
 61 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 
 
 Alice. — One of your old - world 
 
 stories, Uncle John, 
 Such as you tell us by the winter 
 
 fire, 
 Till we all wonder it is grown so 
 
 late. 
 Uncle John. — The story of the 
 
 witch that ground to death 
 Two children in her mill, or will you 
 
 have 
 The tale of Goody Outpurse? 
 
 Alice. — Nay now, nay; 
 
 Those stories are too childish, Uncle 
 
 John, 
 Too childish even for little Willy 
 
 here, 
 And I am older, two good years, than 
 
 he; 
 
 No, let us have a tale of elves that 
 
 ride, 
 By night, with jingling reins, or 
 
 gnomes of the mine, 
 Or water-fairies, such as you know 
 
 how 
 To spin, till Willy's eyes forget to 
 
 wink, 
 And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, 
 Lays down her knitting. 
 
 Uncle John. — Listen to me, then. 
 'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, 
 And long before the great oak at out- 
 door 
 Was yet an acorn, on a mountain's 
 
 side 
 Lived, with his wife, a cottager. 
 
 They dwelt 
 
 63 
 
LEAJPTmS^ FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Beside a glen and near a dashing 
 
 brook, 
 A pleasant spot in spring, where first 
 
 the wren 
 Was heard to chatter, and, among the 
 
 grass, 
 
 In clear November nights. And, 
 
 later still, 
 That mountain-glen was filled with 
 
 drifted snows 
 From side to side, that one might 
 
 walk across ; 
 
 Flowers opened earliest; but when While, many a fathom deep, below, 
 winter came, the brook 
 
 That little brook was fringed with 
 
 other flowers, — 
 White flowers, with crystal leaf and 
 
 stem, that grew 
 
 Sang to itself, and leaped and trotted 
 
 on 
 Unfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward 
 
 the vale. 
 
 Alice. — A mountain-side, you said; 
 the Alps, perhaps, 
 Or our own Alleghanies. 
 
 Uncle John. — Not so fast, 
 
 My young geographer, for then the 
 
 Alps, 
 With their broad pastures, haply 
 
 were untrod 
 
 64 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 Of herdsman's foot, and never human ( >ur Alleghany's streams. I think it 
 voice was 
 
 Had sounded in the woods that over- 
 hang 
 
 Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, 
 Or where the rivulets of Ararat 
 
 Seek the Armenian vales. That 
 mountain rose 
 
 So high, that, on its top, the winter- 
 snow 
 
 Was never melted, and the cottagers 
 
 Among the summer-blossoms, far be- 
 low, 
 
 Saw its white peaks in August from 
 their door. 
 One little maiden, in that cottage- 
 home, 
 
 Dwelt with her parents, light of heart 
 and limb, 
 
 Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting 
 here and there, 
 
 Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean- 
 waves, 
 
 And sometimes she forgot what she 
 was bid, 
 
 As Alice does. 
 Alice. — Or Willy, quite as oft. 
 Uncle John. — But you are older, 
 Alice, two good years, 
 
 And should be wiser. Eva was the 
 name 
 
 Of this young maiden, now twelve 
 summers old. 
 
 Now you must know that, in those 
 
 early times, 
 When autumn days grew pale, there 
 
 came a troop 
 Of childlike forms from that cold 
 
 mountain-top ; 
 With trailing garments through the 
 
 air they came, 
 Or walked the ground with girded 
 
 loins, and threw 
 Spangles of silvery frost upon the grass, 
 And edged the brooks with glistening 
 
 parapets, 
 And built it crystal bridges, touched 
 
 the pool, 
 And turned its face to glass, or, rising 
 
 thence, 
 They shook from their full laps the 
 
 soft, light snow, 
 And buried the great earth, as 
 
 autumn winds 
 Bury the forest - floor in heaps of 
 
 leaves. 
 A beautiful race were they, with 
 
 baby brows, 
 And fair, bright locks, and voices 
 
 like the sound 
 
 65 
 
LEAFnm^fROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Of steps on the crisp snow, in which 
 
 they talked 
 With man, as friend with friend. A 
 
 merry sight 
 It was, when, crowding round the 
 
 traveller, 
 
 They smote him with their heaviest 
 
 snow-flakes, flung 
 Needles of frost in handfuls at his 
 
 cheeks, 
 And, of the light wreaths of his 
 
 smoking breath, 
 
 Wove a white fringe for his brown 
 
 beard, and laughed 
 Their slender laugh to see him wink 
 
 and grin 
 And make grim faces as he floundered 
 
 on. 
 But, when the spring came on, 
 
 what terror reigned 
 
 Among these Little People of the 
 
 Snow ! 
 To them the sun's warm beams were 
 
 shafts of fire, 
 And the soft south-wind was the 
 
 wind of death. 
 Away they flew, all with a pretty 
 
 scowl 
 
 66 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 Upon their childish faces, to the And moulding little snow - balls in 
 
 north, 
 
 Or scampered upward to the moun- 
 tain's top, 
 
 And there defied their enemy, the 
 Spring ; 
 
 Skipping and dancing on the frozen A merry sight to look at. 
 
 peaks, Uncle John.— You are right 
 
 their palms, 
 And rolling them, to crush her 
 
 flowers below, 
 Down the steep snow-fields. 
 
 Alice.^- That, too, must have been 
 
 But I must speak of graver matters 
 
 now. 
 Midwinter was the time, and Eva 
 
 stood, 
 Within the cottage, all prepared to 
 
 dare 
 The outer cold, with ample furry 
 
 robe 
 Close - belted round her waist, and 
 
 boots of fur, 
 
 And a broad kerchief, which her 
 
 mother's hand 
 Had closely drawn about her ruddy 
 
 cheek. 
 "Now, stay not long abroad,' 1 said 
 
 the good dame, 
 "For sharp is the outer air, and, 
 
 mark me well, 
 Go not upon the snow beyond the 
 
 spot 
 
 67 
 
LEA 
 
 Fiym^ 
 
 FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Where the great linden bounds the Where the great linden stood, set 
 
 neighboring field." 
 The little maiden promised, and 
 went forth, 
 
 And climbed the rounded snow-swells 
 firm with frost 
 
 Beneath her feet, and slid, with bal- 
 ancing arms, 
 
 deep in snow, 
 Up to the lower branches. IC Here 
 
 we stop," 
 Said Eva, " for my mother has my 
 
 word 
 That I will go no farther than this 
 
 tree." ■ 
 
 Into the hollows. Once, as up a drift | Then the snow - maiden laughed :. 
 
 She slowly rose, before her, in the " And what is this? 
 
 way, This fear of the pure snow, the 
 
 She saw a little creature, lily-cheeked, innocent snow, 
 
 With flowing flaxen locks, and faint j That never harmed aught living? 
 
 blue eyes, Thou mayst roam 
 
 That gleamed like ice, and robe that | For leagues beyond this garden, and 
 
 only seemed return 
 
 Of a more shadowy whiteness than In safety ; here the grim wolf never 
 
 her cheek. prowls, 
 
 On a smooth bank she sat. And here the eagle of our mountain- 
 
 Alice. — She must have been crags 
 
 One of your Little People of the Preys not in winter. I will show 
 
 Snow. the way, 
 
 Uncle John. — She was so, and, as \ And bring thee safely home. Thy 
 
 Eva now drew near, mother, sure, 
 
 The tiny creature bounded from her , Counselled thee thus because thou 
 
 seat; had st no guide.". 
 
 " And come," she said, " my pretty ; By such smooth words was Eva 
 
 friend ; to-day won to break 
 
 We will be playmates. I have i Her promise, and went on with her 
 
 watched thee long, new friend, 
 
 And seen how well thou lov'st to Over the glistening snow and down a 
 
 walk these drifts, bank 
 
 And scoop their fair sides into little I Where a white shelf, wrought by the 
 
 cells, eddying wind, 
 
 And carve them with quaint figures, Like to a billow's crest in the great 
 
 huge-limbed men, 
 Lions, and griffins. We will have, 
 
 to-day, 
 A merry ramble over these bright 
 
 fields, 
 And thou shalt see what thou hast 
 
 never seen." 
 On went the pair, until they reached 
 
 the bound 
 
 
 sea, 
 Curtained an opening. "Look, we 
 
 enter here." 
 And straight, beneath the fair o'er- 
 
 hanging fold, 
 Entered the little pair that hill of 
 
 snow, 
 Walking along a passage with white 
 
 walls, 
 
 68 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 And a white vault above where j And held her peace, but the snow- 
 snow-stars shed maiden smiled, 
 
 A wintry twilight. Eva moved in And talked and tripped along, as, 
 awe, down the way, 
 
 
 Deeper they went into that raoun- Such as the Florentine, who bore the 
 tainous drift. name 
 
 And now the white walls widened, Of heaven's most potent angel, 
 
 and the vault 
 Swelled upward, like some vast cathe- 
 dral-dome, 
 
 reared, long since, 
 Or the unknown builder ot that 
 wondrous fane, 
 
LEAFT&q^FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 The glory of Burgos. Here a garden 
 
 lay, 
 [n which the Little People of the Snow 
 Were wont to take their pastime 
 
 when their tasks 
 Upon the mountain's side and in the 
 
 clouds 
 Were ended. Here they taught the 
 
 silent frost 
 To mock, in stem and spray, and leaf 
 
 and flower, 
 The growths of summer. Here the 
 
 palm upreared 
 Its white columnar trunk and spotless 
 
 sheaf 
 Of plume -like leaves; here cedars, 
 
 huge as those 
 
 These are the northern lights, such 
 
 as thou seest 
 In the midwinter nights, cold, wan- 
 dering flames, 
 That float with our processions, 
 
 through the air ; 
 And here, within our winter palaces, 
 Mimic the glorious daybreak." Then 
 
 she told 
 How, when the wind, in the long 
 
 winter nights, 
 Swept the light snows into the hollow 
 
 dell, 
 She and her comrades guided to its 
 
 place 
 Each wandering flake, and piled them 
 
 quaintly up, 
 
 Of Lebanon, stretched far their level In shapely colonnade and glistening 
 
 boughs, 
 
 arch, 
 
 Yet pale and shadowless ; the sturdy : With shadowy aisles between, or 
 
 oak 
 
 bade them grow, 
 
 Stood, with its huge gnarled roots of j Beneath their little hands, to bowery 
 
 seeming strength, 
 Fast anchored in the glistening bank ; 
 
 light sprays 
 Of myrtle, roses in their bud and 
 
 bloom, 
 Drooped by the winding walks ; yet 
 
 all seemed wrought 
 Of stainless alabaster ; up the trees 
 
 walks 
 In gardens such as these, and, o'er 
 
 them all, 
 Built the broad roof. "But thou 
 
 hast yet to see 
 A fairer sight," she said, and led the 
 
 way 
 To where a window of pellucid ice 
 
 Ran the lithe jessamine, with stalk Stood in the wall of snow, beside 
 
 and leaf 
 Colorless as her flowers. " Go softly 
 
 on," 
 Said the snow-maiden; "touch not, 
 
 with thy hand, 
 The frail creation round thee, and 
 
 beware 
 To sweep it with thy skirts. Now 
 
 look above. 
 How sumptuously these bowers are 
 
 lighted up 
 With shifting gleams that softly come 
 
 and go ! 
 
 their path. 
 "Look, but thou mayst not enter." 
 
 Eva looked, 
 And lo ! a glorious hall, from whose 
 
 high vault 
 Stripes of soft light, ruddy and 
 
 delicate green, 
 And tender blue, flowed downward 
 
 to the floor 
 And far around, as if the aerial 
 
 hosts, 
 That march on high by night, with 
 
 beamy spears, 
 
 70 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 And streaming banners, to that place I Whirled in a merry dance to silvery 
 had brought sounds, 
 
 Their radiant flags to grace a festival. 
 And in that hall a joyous multitude 
 Of those by whom its glistening walls 
 were reared, 
 
 That rang from cymbals of trans- 
 parent ice, 
 
 And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful 
 touch 
 
 Of little fingers. Round and round 
 they flew, 
 
 As when, in spring, about a chimney- 
 top, 
 
 A cloud of twittering swallows, just 
 returned, 
 
 Wheel round and round, and turn 
 and wheel again. 
 
 Unwinding their swift track. So 
 rapidly 
 
 And there stood Eva, wondering at 
 the sight 
 
 Of those bright revellers and that 
 graceful sweep 
 
 Of motion as they passed her; — long 
 she gazed, 
 
 And listened long to the sweet 
 sounds that thrilled 
 
 The frosty air, till now the encroach- 
 ing cold 
 
 Flowed the meandering stream of I Recalled her to herself. " Too long, 
 
 that fair dance, too long 
 
 Beneath that dome of light. Bright | I linger here," she said, and then she 
 
 eyes that looked sprang 
 
 From under lily-brows, and gauzy ! Into the path, and with a hurried 
 
 scarfs step 
 
 Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the Followed it upward. Ever by her 
 
 early sun, side 
 
 Shot by the window in their mazy Her little guide kept pace. As on 
 
 whirl. they went, 
 
 71 
 
LEAFESQ^ FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Eva bemoaned her fault : " What 
 
 must they think — 
 The dear ones in the cottage, while 
 
 so long, 
 Hour after hour, I stay without? I 
 
 know 
 That they will seek me far and near, 
 
 and weep 
 
 To find me not. How could I, 
 
 wickedly, 
 Neglect the charge they gave me?' 1 
 
 As she spoke, 
 The hot tears started to her eyes; 
 
 she knelt 
 In the mid-path. "Father! forgive 
 
 this sin : 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 Forgive myself I cannot " — thus she 
 
 prayed, 
 And rose and hastened onward. 
 
 When, at last, 
 They reached the outer air, the clear 
 
 north breathed 
 A bitter cold, from which she shrank 
 
 with dread, 
 
 But the snow-maiden bounded as she 
 
 felt 
 The cutting blast, and uttered shouts 
 
 of joy, 
 
 And skipped, with boundless glee, 
 
 from drift to drift, 
 And danced round Eva, as she labored 
 
 up 
 
 The mounds of snow. "Ah me! I 
 
 feel my eyes 
 Grow heavy," Eva said; "they swim 
 
 with sleep ; 
 I cannot walk for utter weariness, 
 And I must rest a moment on this 
 
 bank, 
 But let it not be long." As thus she 
 
 spoke, 
 In half formed words, she sank on 
 
 the smooth snow, 
 With closing lids. Her guide com- 
 posed the robe 
 About her limbs, and said : " A 
 
 pleasant spot 
 Is this to slumber in ; on such a couch 
 Oft have I slept away the winter 
 
 night, 
 And had the sweetest dreams." So 
 
 Eva slept, 
 But slept in death; for when the 
 
 I power of frost 
 
 Locks up the motions of the living 
 
 frame, 
 The victim passes to the realm of 
 
 Death 
 Through the dim porch of Sleep. 
 
 The little guide, 
 Watching beside her, saw the hues of 
 
 life 
 Fade from the fair smooth brow and 
 
 rounded cheek, 
 As fades the crimson from a morning 
 
 cloud, 
 Till they were white as marble, and 
 
 the breath 
 Had ceased to come and go, yet knew 
 
 she not 
 At first that this was death. But 
 
 when she marked 
 How deep the paleness was, how 
 
 motionless 
 That once lithe form, a fear came 
 
 over her. 
 
 73 
 
LEAFlEJ^KFROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 She strove to wake the sleeper, 
 plucked her robe, 
 
 And shouted in her ear, but all in 
 vain; 
 
 The life had passed away from those 
 young limbs. 
 
 Then the snow-maiden raised a wail- 
 ing cry, 
 
 Such as the dweller in some lonely 
 wild, 
 
 Sleepless through all the long Decem- 
 ber night, 
 
 Hears when the mournful east begins 
 to blow. 
 But suddenly was heard the sound 
 of steps, 
 
 Grating on the crisp snow ; the cot- 
 tagers 
 JVere seeking Eva; from afar they 
 
 saw 
 The twain, and hurried toward them. 
 
 As they came 
 With gentle chidings ready on their 
 
 lips, 
 And marked that deathlike sleep, and 
 
 heard the tale 
 Of the snow-maiden, mortal anguish 
 
 fell 
 Upon their hearts, and bitter words 
 
 of grief 
 And blame were uttered: "Cruel, 
 
 cruel one, 
 
 To tempt our daughter thus, and 
 
 cruel we, 
 Who suffered her to wander forth 
 
 alone 
 In this fierce cold ! " They lifted the 
 
 dear child, 
 And bore her home and chafed her 
 
 tender limbs, 
 And strove, by all the simple arts 
 
 they knew, 
 To make the chilled blood move, and 
 
 win the breath 
 Back to her bosom ; fruitlessly they 
 
 strove ; 
 The little maid was dead. In blank 
 
 despair 
 
 They stood, and gazed at her who 
 
 never more 
 Should look on them. " Why die we 
 
 not with her?" 
 They said ; " without her, life is 
 
 bitterness." 
 Now came the funeral-day ; the 
 
 simple folk 
 Of all that pastoral region gathered 
 
 round 
 To share the sorrow of the cot- 
 tagers. 
 They carved a way into the mound of 
 
 snow 
 To the glen's side, and dug a little 
 
 grave 
 
 74 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 In the smooth slope, and, following 
 
 the bier, 
 In long procession from the silent door, 
 Chanted a sad and solemn melody : 
 
 " Lay her away to rest within the 
 ground. 
 Yea, lay her down whose pure and 
 innocent life 
 
 §d$ 
 
 Was spotless as these snows ; for she 
 
 was reared 
 In love, and passed in love life's 
 
 pleasant spring, 
 
 And all that now our tenderest love 
 
 can do 
 Is to give burial to her lifeless 
 
 limbs." 
 
 75 
 
LEAFI^9^FR0M STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 They paused. A thousand slender 
 
 voices round, 
 Like echoes softly flung from rock 
 
 and hill, 
 Took up the strain, and all the 
 
 hollow air 
 Seemed mourning for the dead ; for, 
 
 on that day, 
 The Little People of the Snow had 
 
 come, 
 From mountain-peak, and cloud, and 
 
 icy hall, 
 To Eva's burial. As the murmur died, 
 
 The little grave was closed ; the 
 
 funeral-train 
 Peparted ; winter wore away ; the 
 
 Spring 
 Steeped, with her quickening rains, 
 
 the violet-tufts, 
 By fond hands planted where the 
 
 maiden slept. 
 But, after Eva's burial, never more 
 The Little People of the Snow were 
 
 seen 
 By human eye, nor ever human 
 
 ear 
 
 The funeral-train renewed the solemn Heard from their lips articulate 
 
 chant : 
 
 speech again; 
 
 " Thou, Lord, hast taken her to be | For a decree went forth to cut them 
 
 with Eve, 
 
 off, 
 
 Whose gentle name was given her. Forever, from communion with man- 
 
 Even so, 
 
 kind. 
 
 For so Thy wisdom saw that it was The winter-clouds, along the moun- 
 
 best 
 
 tain-side, 
 
 For her and us. We bring our bleed- Rolled downward toward the vale, 
 
 ing hearts, 
 
 but no fair form 
 
 And ask the touch of healing from ! Leaned from their folds, and, in the 
 
 Thy hand, 
 As, with submissive tears, we render 
 
 back 
 The lovely and beloved to Him who 
 
 gave." 
 They ceased. Again the plaintive 
 
 murmur rose. 
 From shadowy skirts of low-hung 
 
 cloud it came, 
 And wide white fields, and fir-trees 
 
 capped with snow, 
 Shivering to the sad sounds. They 
 
 sank away 
 To silence in the dim-seen distant 
 
 woods. 
 
 icy glens, 
 And aged woods, under snow-loaded 
 
 pines, 
 Where once they made their haunt, 
 
 was emptiness. 
 But ever, when the wintry days 
 
 drew near, 
 Around that little grave, in the long 
 
 night, 
 Frost-wreaths were laid and tufts of 
 
 silvery rime 
 In shape like blades and blossoms of 
 
 the field, 
 As one would scatter flowers upon a 
 
 bier. 
 
 76 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 
 Gentle and merciful and just ! 
 
 Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
 The sword of power, a nation's trust! 
 
 In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 
 Amid the awe that hushes all, 
 
 And speak the anguish of a land 
 That shook with horror at thy fall. 
 
 Thy task is done ; the bond are free : 
 We bear thee to an honored grave, 
 
 Whose proudest monument shall be 
 The broken fetters of the slave. 
 
 Pure was thy life ; its bloody close 
 
 Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 
 
 Among the noble host of those 
 Who perished in the cause of Right. 
 77 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. MARTIN. 
 
 Shrewd was the good St. Martin; he 
 was famed 
 For sly expedients and devices 
 quaint ; 
 And autumn's latest sunny days are 
 named 
 St. Martin's summer from the 
 genial saint. 
 Large were his charities; one winter 
 
 day 
 He saw a half-clad beggar in the way, 
 And stopped and said: " Well met, 
 my friend, well met ; 
 That nose of thine, I see, is quite too 
 
 blue." 
 With that his trenchant sword he 
 drew — 
 For he was in the service yet — 
 And cut his military cloak in two ; 
 
 And with a pleasant laugh 
 He bade the shivering rogue take 
 half. 
 
 On one of the great roads of 
 France 
 Two travellers were journeying on a 
 day. 
 The saint drew near, as if by 
 chance, 
 And joined them, walking the same 
 
 way. 
 A shabby pair in truth were they, 
 For one was meanly covetous, and 
 
 one 
 An envious wretch — so doth the 
 legend run. 
 Yet courteously they greeted him, 
 and talked 
 
 Of current topics; for example, 
 
 whether 
 There would be war, and what to- 
 morrow's weather, 
 Cheating the weary furlongs as they 
 walked. 
 And when the eventide drew near 
 Thus spoke the saint: "We part to- 
 night ; 
 I am St. Martin, and I give you 
 here 
 The means to make your fortunes, 
 used aright ; 
 Let one of you think what will 
 please him best, 
 And freely ask what I will freely 
 
 give. 
 And he who asks not shall from me 
 receive 
 Twice what the other gains by his 
 
 request ; 
 And now I take my leave." 
 He spoke, and left the astonished 
 
 men 
 Delighted with his words ; but then 
 The question rose, which of that 
 
 lucky pair 
 Should speak the wish and take the 
 smaller share. 
 Each begged the other not to heed 
 The promptings of a selfish greed, 
 But frame at once, since he so well 
 
 knew how, 
 The amplest, fullest wish that words 
 allow. 
 "Dear comrade, act a princely 
 part; 
 Lay every sordid thought aside ; 
 
 79 
 
LEAFL%f&*FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Show thyself generous as thou 
 
 art; 
 Take counsel of thy own large 
 
 heart, 
 And nobly for our common good 
 
 provide." 
 But neither prayers nor flatteries 
 
 availed ; 
 They passed from these to threats, 
 
 and threats too failed. 
 Thus went the pleadings on, until at 
 
 last 
 The covetous man, his very blood 
 
 on fire, 
 Flew at his fellow's throat and 
 
 clenched it fast, 
 And shrieked: "Die, then, or do 
 
 what I require ; 
 Die, strangled like a dog." That 
 
 taunt awoke 
 A fierce anger in his envious 
 
 mate, 
 
 And merged the thirst of gain in 
 bitter hate ; 
 And with a half-choked voice he 
 spoke, 
 Dissembling his malign intent, 
 "Take off thy hand and I con- 
 sent." 
 The grasp was loosened, and he 
 raised a shout, 
 " I wish that one of my own eyes 
 were out." 
 The wish was gratified as soon as 
 
 heard. 
 St. Martin punctually kept his word. 
 The envious man was one-eyed from 
 that day, 
 The other blind for his whole life 
 
 remained. 
 And this was all the good that 
 either gained 
 From the saint's offer in the public 
 way. 
 
 80 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 
 THE WORDS OF THE KORAN. 
 
 Emie Hassan, of the prophet's race, 
 Asked with folded hands the Al- 
 mighty's grace. 
 Then within the banquet-hall he sat 
 At his meal upon the embroidered mat. 
 
 There a slave before him placed the 
 
 food, 
 Spilling from the charger, as he 
 
 stood, 
 Awkwardly, upon the Emir's breast, 
 Drops that foully stained the silken 
 
 vest. 
 
 To the floor, in great remorse and 
 dread, 
 
 Fell the slave, and thus beseeching 
 said: 
 
 "Master! they who hasten to re- 
 strain 
 
 Rising wrath, in Paradise shall 
 reign." 
 
 Gentle was the answer Hassan gave : 
 "I'm not angry." "Yet," pursued 
 
 the slave, 
 "Yet doth higher recompense be- 
 long 
 To the injured who forgives a 
 
 wrong. 
 
 Yet we 
 
 " I forgive," said Hassan. 
 
 read," 
 Thus the prostrate slave went on to 
 
 plead, 
 " That a higher place in glory still 
 Waits the man who renders good for 
 
 ill." 
 
 " Slave, receive thy freedom, and be- 
 hold 
 
 In thy hands I lay a purse of gold ; 
 
 Let me never fail to heed in aught 
 
 What the prophet of our God hath 
 taught." 
 
 81 
 

BRYANT. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Not idly do I stray And note, along my way, 
 
 At prime, where far the mountain Each flower that opens in the early 
 y ridges run, sun ; 
 
 83 
 
LEAFLfiW+fROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Or gather blossoms by the valley's 
 spring, 
 
 When the sun sets and dancing in- 
 sects sing. 
 
 Each has her moral rede, 
 Each of the gentle family of flowers ; 
 
 And I with patient heed, 
 Oft spell their lessons in my graver 
 
 hours. 
 The faintest streak that on a petal lies, 
 May speak instruction to initiate eyes. 
 
 ClTMMINGTON, 1S40. 
 
 And well do poets teach 
 Each blossom's charming mystery ; 
 
 declare, 
 In clear melodious speech, 
 The silent admonitions pencilled 
 
 there ; 
 And from the Love of Beauty, aptly 
 
 taught, 
 Lead to a higher good, the willing 
 
 thought. 
 
 Eoslyn, 1875. 
 
 84 
 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE CENTENNIAL HYMN. 
 
 Through calm and storm the years Oh, chequered train of years, fare- 
 
 have led 
 Our nation on, from stage to 
 
 stage — 
 A century's space — until we tread 
 The threshold of another age. 
 
 We see where o'er our pathway 
 
 swept 
 
 A torrent-stream of blood and fire, 
 
 And thank the Guardian Power who 
 
 kept 
 
 Our sacred League of States entire. 
 
 well ! 
 With all thy strifes and hopes and 
 
 fears ! 
 Yet with us let thy memories dwell, 
 To warn and teach the coming 
 
 years. 
 
 And thou, the new- beginning age, 
 Warned by the past, and not in 
 vain, 
 
 Write on a fairer, whiter page, 
 The record of thy happier reign. 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 
 
 
 A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless 
 
 Urn, 
 Pours forth the never-ending Flood 
 
 of Years, 
 Among the nations. How the rush- 
 ing waves 
 Bear all before them ! On their fore- 
 most edge, 
 And there alone, is Life. The Pres- 
 ent there 
 Tosses and foams, and fills the air 
 
 with roar 
 Of mingled noises. There are they 
 
 who toil, 
 And they who strive, and they who 
 
 feast, and they 
 Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy 
 
 swain — 
 Woodman and delver with the spade 
 
 — is there, 
 And busy artisan beside his bench, 
 And pallid student with his written 
 
 roll. 
 A moment on the mounting billow 
 
 seen, 
 The flood sweeps over them and they 
 
 are gone. 
 There groups of revellers whose 
 
 brows are twined 
 With roses, ride the topmost swell 
 
 awhile, 
 And as they raise their flowing cups 
 
 and touch 
 The clinking brim to brim, are 
 
 whirled beneath 
 The waves and disappear. I hear 
 
 the jar 
 Of beaten drums, and thunders that 
 
 break forth 
 
 From cannon, where the advancing 
 
 billow sends 
 Up to the sight long files of armed 
 
 men, 
 That hurry to the charge through 
 
 flame and smoke. 
 The torrent bears them under, 
 
 whelmed and hid 
 Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody 
 
 foam. 
 Down go the steed and rider, the 
 
 plumed chief 
 Sinks with his followers; the head 
 
 that wears 
 The imperial diadem goes down be- 
 side 
 The felon's with cropped ear and 
 
 branded cheek. 
 A funeral-train — the torrent sweeps 
 
 away 
 Bearers and bier and mourners. By 
 
 the bed 
 Of one who dies men gather sorrow- 
 ing, 
 And women weep aloud: the flood 
 
 rolls on; 
 The wail is stifled and the sobbing 
 
 group 
 Borne under. Hark to that shrill, 
 
 sudden shout, 
 The cry of an applauding multitude, 
 Swayed by some loud-voiced orator 
 
 who wields 
 The living mass as if he were its 
 
 soul! 
 The waters choke the shout and all is 
 
 still. 
 Lo! next a kneeling crowd, and one 
 
 who spreads 
 
 87 
 
LEAFLETB+$ROM ' STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 The hands in prayer— the engulfing 
 
 wave o'ertakes 
 And swallows them and him. A 
 
 sculptor wields 
 The chisel, and the stricken marble 
 
 grows 
 To beauty ; at his easel, eager-eyed, 
 A painter stands, and sunshine at his 
 
 touch 
 Gathers upon his canvas, and life 
 
 glows; 
 A poet, as he paces to and fro, 
 
 Gleam the white locks, and then are 
 seen no more. 
 Lo ! wider grows the stream— a 
 sea- like flood 
 
 Saps earth's walled cities; massive 
 palaces 
 
 Crumble before it; fortresses and 
 towers 
 
 Dissolve in the swift waters; popu- 
 lous realms 
 
 Swept by the torrent see their 
 ancient tribes 
 
 Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile Engulfed and lost; their very lan- 
 
 they ride 
 
 guages 
 
 The advancing billow, till its tossing j Stifled, and never to be uttered 
 
 crest 
 Strikes them and flings them under, 
 while their tasks 
 
 more. 
 I pause and turn my eyes, and 
 looking back 
 
 Are yet unfinished. See a mother j Where that tumultuous flood has 
 
 smile 
 
 been, I see 
 
 On her young babe that smiles to her | The silent ocean of the Past, a waste 
 
 again ; 
 The torrent wrests it from her arms; 
 
 she shrieks 
 And weeps, and midst her tears is 
 
 carried clown. 
 A beam like that of moonlight turns 
 
 the spray 
 To glistening pearls; two lovers, 
 
 hand in hand, 
 Rise on the billowy swell and fondly 
 
 look 
 Into each other's eyes. The rushing 
 
 flood 
 Flings them apart: the youth goes 
 
 down ; the maid 
 With hands outstretched in vain, and 
 
 streaming eyes, 
 Waits for the next high wave to 
 
 follow him. 
 An aged man succeeds ; his bending 
 
 form 
 Sinks slowly. Mingling with the 
 
 sullen stream 
 
 Of waters weltering over graves, its 
 shores 
 
 Strewn with the wreck of fleets 
 where mast and hull 
 
 Drop away piecemeal; battlemented 
 walls 
 
 Frown idly, green with moss, and 
 temples stand 
 
 Unroofed, forsaken by the wor- 
 shipper. 
 
 There lie memorial stones, whence 
 time has gnawed 
 
 The graven legends, thrones of kings 
 o'erturned, 
 
 The broken altars of forgotten gods, 
 
 Foundations of old cities and long 
 streets 
 
 Where never fall of human foot is 
 heard, 
 
 On all the desolate pavement. I be- 
 hold 
 
 Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far 
 within 
 
 88 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 The sleeping waters, diamond, sar- i Divinely fair, that rest on banks of 
 
 donyx, 
 Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 
 Once glittering at the banquet on fair 
 
 brows 
 
 flowers, 
 Or wander among rainbows, fading 
 
 soon 
 And reappearing, haply giving place 
 
 That long ago were dust, and all j To forms of grisly aspect such as 
 
 Fear 
 
 around 
 Strewn on the surface of that silent 
 
 sea 
 Are withering bridal wreaths, and 
 
 glossy locks 
 Shorn from dear brows, by loving The bony arm in menace. Further 
 
 hands, and scrolls on 
 
 O'er written, haply with fond words I A belt of darkness seems to bar the 
 
 Shapes from the idle air — where 
 
 serpents lift 
 The head to strike, and skeletons 
 
 stretch forth 
 
 of love 
 
 way 
 
 And vows of friendship, and fair Long, low, and distant, where the 
 
 pages flung 
 
 Life to come 
 
 Fresh from the printer's engine. : Touches the Life that is. The Flood 
 
 There they lie 
 
 of Years 
 
 A moment, and then sink away from Rolls toward it near and nearer. It 
 
 sight. 
 
 must pass 
 
 I look, and the quick tears are in ; That dismal barrier. What is there 
 
 my eyes, 
 For I behold in every one of these 
 A blighted hope, a separate history 
 
 beyond ? 
 Hear what the wise and good have 
 said. Beyond 
 
 Of human sorrows, telling of dear J That belt of darkness, still the Years 
 
 roll on 
 More gently, but with not less mighty 
 
 sweep. 
 They gather up again and softly bear 
 All the sweet lives that late were 
 
 overwhelmed 
 And lost to sight, all that in them 
 
 was good, 
 ISToble, and truly great, and worthy 
 
 of love — 
 The lives of infants and ingenuous 
 
 youths, 
 Sages and saintly women who have 
 
 made 
 Their households happy; all are 
 
 raised and borne 
 By that great current in its onward 
 
 sweep, 
 
 ties 
 Suddenly broken, dreams of happi- 
 ness 
 Dissolved in air, and happy days too 
 
 brief 
 That sorrowfully ended, and I think 
 How painfully must the poor heart 
 
 have beat 
 In bosoms without number, as the 
 
 blow 
 Was struck that slew their hope and 
 
 broke their peace. 
 Sadly I turn and look before, 
 
 where yet 
 The Flood must pass, and I behold 
 
 a mist 
 Where swarm dissolving forms, the 
 
 brood of Hope, 
 
 89 
 
LEAFLftT&^ROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 Wandering and rippling with caress- I Or but remembered to make sweet 
 
 ing waves 
 Around green islands with the breath 
 Of flowers that never wither. So 
 
 they pass 
 From stage to stage along the shining 
 
 course 
 Of that bright river, broadening like 
 
 a sea. 
 As its smooth eddies curl along their 
 
 way 
 They bring old friends together; 
 
 hands are clasped 
 In joy unspeakable ; the mother's arms 
 Again are folded round the child she 
 
 loved 
 And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten 
 
 now, 
 
 I 
 90 
 
 the hour 
 That overpays them ; wounded hearts 
 
 that bled 
 Or broke are healed forever. In the 
 
 room 
 Of this grief-shadowed present, there 
 
 shall be 
 A Present in whose reign no grief 
 
 shall gnaw 
 The heart, and never shall a tender 
 
 tie 
 Be broken; in whose reign the 
 
 eternal Change 
 That waits on growth and action 
 
 shall proceed 
 With everlasting Concord hand in 
 
 hand. 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 
 
 Sleep, Motley! with the great of ancient days, 
 
 Who wrote for all the years that yet shall be; 
 Sleep with Herodotus, whose Dame and praise 
 
 Have reached the isles of earth's remotest sea; 
 Sleep, while, defiant of the slow decays 
 
 Of time, thy glorious writings speak for thee, 
 And in the answering heart of millions raise 
 
 The generous zeal for Right and Liberty. 
 And should the day o'ertake us when, at last, 
 
 The silence that, ere yet a human pen 
 Had traced the slenderest record of the past — 
 
 Hushed the primeval languages of men — 
 Upon our English tongue its spell shall cast, 
 
 Thy memory shall perish only then. 
 91 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY. 
 
 Pale is the February sky, 
 
 And brief the mid-day's sunny 
 hours ; 
 The wind-swept forest seems to sigh 
 For the sweet time of leaves and 
 flowers. 
 
 ! Lo, where, beneath an icy shield, 
 Calmly the mighty Hudson flows ! 
 By snow-clad fell and frozen field, 
 Broadening, the lordly river goes. 
 
 Yet has no month a prouder day, 
 Not even when the summer broods 
 
 O'er meadows in their fresh array, 
 Or autumn tints the glowing 
 woods. 
 
 For this chill season now again 
 Brings, in its annual round, the 
 morn 
 
 When, greatest of the sons of men, 
 Our glorious Washington was born. 
 
 The wildest storm that sweeps 
 through space, 
 And rends the oak with sudden 
 force, 
 Can raise no ripple on his face, 
 Or slacken his majestic course. 
 
 Thus, 'mid the wreck of thrones, 
 shall live 
 Unmarred, undimmed, our hero's 
 fame, 
 And years succeeding years shall give 
 Increase of honors to his name. 
 
 93 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 FABLES. 
 
 THE ELM AND THE VINE. 
 
 " Uphold my feeble branches 
 
 By thy strong arms, I pray." 
 Thus to the Elm her neighbor 
 
 The Vine was heard to say. 
 kl Else, lying low and helpless, 
 
 A wretched lot is mine, 
 Crawled o'er by every reptile, 
 
 And browsed by hungry kine." 
 The Elm was moved to pity. 
 
 Then spoke the generous tree : 
 " My hapless friend, come hither, 
 
 And find support in me." 
 The kindly Elm, receiving 
 
 The grateful Vine's embrace, 
 Became, with that adornment, 
 
 The garden's pride and grace ; 
 Became the chosen covert 
 
 In which the wild-birds sing; 
 Became the love of shepherds, 
 
 And glory of the spring. 
 
 Oh, beautiful example 
 
 For youthful minds to heed ! 
 The good we do to others 
 
 Shall never miss its meed. 
 The love of those whose sorrows 
 
 We lighten shall be ours ; 
 And o'er the path we walk in 
 
 That love shall scatter flowers. 
 
 THE DONKEY AND THE MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 A mock-bird in a village 
 
 Had somehow gained the skill 
 
 To imitate the voices 
 Of animals at will. 
 
 And, singing in his prison 
 Once at the close of day, 
 
 He gave with great precision 
 The donkey's heavy bray. 
 
 Well pleased, the mock-bird's mas- 
 ter 
 
 Sent to the neighbors round, 
 And bade them come together 
 
 To hear that curious sound. 
 
 They came, and all were talking 
 In praise of what they heard, 
 
 And one delighted lady 
 
 Would fain have bought the 
 bird. 
 
 A donkey listened sadly, 
 
 And said : " Confess I must, 
 
 That these are stupid people, 
 And terribly unjust. 
 
 " I'm bigger than the mock-bird, 
 And better bray than he, 
 
 Yet not a soul has uttered 
 A word in praise of me." 
 
 THE CATERPILLAR AND THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 (Selected.) 
 
 " Good-morrow, friend." So spoke, 
 upon a day, 
 A caterpillar to a butterfly. 
 The winged creature looked another 
 way, 
 And made this proud reply : 
 "No friend of worms am I." 
 
 94 
 
LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 
 
 The insulted caterpillar heard, 
 
 And answered thus the taunting 
 
 word; 
 11 And what wert thou, I pray, 
 Ere God bestowed on thee that brave 
 
 array ? 
 Why treat the caterpillar tribe with 
 
 scorn ? 
 Art thou, then, nobly born? 
 What art thou, madam, at the best ? 
 A caterpillar elegantly dressed." 
 
 THE SPIDER'S WEB. 
 
 A dextrous spider chose 
 
 The delicate blossom of a garden 
 
 rose 
 Whereon to plant and bind 
 The net he framed to take the insect 
 
 kind. 
 And when his task was done, 
 Proud of the cunning lines his art 
 
 had spun, 
 He said : "I take my stand 
 Close by my work, and watch what I 
 
 have planned. 
 And now, if Heaven should bless 
 My labors with but moderate success, 
 No iiy shall pass this way, 
 Nor gnat, but they shall fall an easy 
 
 prey." 
 He spoke, when from the sky 
 A strong wind swooped, and whirl- 
 ing, hurried by, 
 And, far before the blast, 
 Rose, leaf, and web, and plans and 
 
 hopes were cast. 
 
 THE DIAL AND THE SUN. 
 
 A Dial, looking from a stately 
 tower, 
 While from his cloudless path in 
 heaven the Sun 
 
 Shone on its disk, as hour succeeded 
 hour, 
 Faithfully marked their flight till 
 day was done. 
 
 Fair was that gilded disk, but when 
 at last 
 Night brought the shadowy hours 
 'twixt eve and prime, 
 No longer that fair disk, for those 
 who passed, 
 Measured and marked the silent 
 flight of time. 
 
 The human mind, on which no 
 hallowed light 
 Shines from the sphere beyond the 
 starry train, 
 Is like the Dial's gilded disk at 
 night, 
 Whose cunning tracery exists in 
 vain. 
 
 THE EAGLE AND THE SERPENT. 
 
 A serpent watched an eagle gain, 
 On soaring wings, a mountain 
 height, 
 And envied him, and crawled with 
 pain 
 To where he saw the bird alight. 
 So fickle fortune oftentimes 
 
 Befriends the cunning and the 
 base, 
 And many a grovelling reptile climbs 
 Up to the eagle's lofty place. 
 
 THE WOODMAN AND SANDAL-TREE. 
 
 Beside a sandal-tree a woodman 
 stood 
 And swung the axe, and while 
 its blows were laid 
 
 95 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 Upon the fragrant trunk, the gener- 
 ous wood 
 With its own sweet perfumed the 
 cruel blade. 
 Go, then, and do the like. A soul i 
 endued 
 With light from heaven, a nature j 
 pure and great, 
 Will place its highest bliss in doing 
 good, 
 And good for evil give, and love 
 for hate. 
 
 THE HIDDEN EILL. 
 
 Aoeoss a pleasant field a rill unseen 
 Glides from a fountain, nor does 
 
 aught betray 
 Its presence, save a tint of lovelier 
 
 green, 
 
 And flowers that scent the air 
 along its way. 
 Thus silently should charity attend 
 Those who in want's drear cham- 
 bers pine and grieve ; 
 No token should reveal the aid we 
 lend, 
 Save the glad looks our welcome 
 visits leave. 
 
 THE COST OF A PLEASURE. 
 
 Upon the valley's lap 
 The liberal morning throws 
 
 A thousand drops of clew 
 To wake a single rose. 
 
 Thus often, in the course 
 Of life's few fleeting years, 
 
 A single pleasure costs 
 The soul a thousand tears. 
 
 96 
 
 M> -3& 
 
<XI APPLETONS' READERS IX> 
 
 "Were the first school publications that fully recognized the advanced 
 position and new demands of the teacher's profession, and that em- 
 bodied in a perfected form the 
 
 Modern Educational Ideas 
 
 which, in the intellectual activities of the age, were demanding higher 
 and better expressions, in harmony with the prevailing spirit of prog- 
 ress and improvement. 
 
 The fact that in all the series of Readers that have been issued since 
 the publication of Appletons' — and they are numerous in consequence 
 -—the distinctive features which have made the Appleton series the 
 standard and 
 
 Preferred Text-Books of Reading in this Country 
 
 have been imitated, is the strongest evidence of their acknowledged 
 superiority and merit. 
 
 Appletons' Readers are not machine-made books, but are the care- 
 fully shaped results of long and intelligently conducted work in the 
 school-room by the 
 
 Most Eminent and Successful Educators 
 
 in the country, from whose convictions and necessities these books 
 were evolved. 
 
 Among the distinguishing features which are philosophically de- 
 veloped and effectively applied in Appletons' Readers, and which 
 have been enthusiastically approved by every progressive teacher, are 
 the following: 
 
 Language Lessons and Language Study as the basis of correct men- 
 tal growth. 
 
 Word and Sentence Analysis, with composition, and study of word-mean- 
 ings, introducing a variety of script exercises. 
 
 Word and Phonic Method combined, which has been demonstrated to be 
 the best way oi teaching reading and correct enunciation. 
 
 Literary Excellence of the reading exercises, and the suggestive notes for a 
 better conception of the author's language, as illustrated in the higher books. 
 
 Beauty of Illustration, regarded both artistically and educationally, and 
 as an important auxiliary aid to instruction. 
 
 <x\ APPLETONS' READERS \x> 
 
 are comprised in a series of 
 
 Five Books, with Speller combined, 
 D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 
 
 New York, Boston, Chicago, San Francisco. 
 
. WiCETkM Cullen Bryant's 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 Memorial Edition. Edited by Parke Godwin. With copious 
 Notes. In 2 vols. Square 8vo, uniform with the " Biography." 
 Cloth, gilt top, $6.00 ; half calf, or half morocco, $12.00. 
 
 This is a wholly new and exhaustive edition of Bryant's Poetical Works, 
 
 5>rinted with unusual elegance, containing sixty or more poems never before col- 
 ected. 
 
 Illustrated Edition. With One Hundred Engravings by Birket 
 Foster, Harry Fenn, Alfred Fredericks, and other artists. Bio- 
 graphical Sketch by R. H. Stoddaed, and View of Bryant's Resi- 
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 morocco, $5.00 ; tree calf, $5.00. 
 
 Red-Line Edition. With Twenty-four Illustrations and Portrait 
 of Bryant, on Steel. Printed on tinted paper, with red line. Square 
 12mo. Cloth, extra, $2.50; half calf, $4.00; morocco, antique, 
 $6.00 ; tree calf, $6.00. 
 
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 SONG OF THE SOWER. Illustrated on Wood from Draw- 
 ings by Fenn, Hows, Homer, Fredericks, Hennessy, and others. 
 New cheap edition. Cloth, extra gilt, $2.00; morocco, antique, 
 $5.00. 
 
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 Drawings by Fenn, Hows, Fredericks, and others. New cheap edi- 
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 Cloth, $2.00 ; morocco, $5.00. 
 
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