ILLUSTRATIVE SELECTIONS WITH NOTES

SELECTION FROM FRANCIS SCOTT KEY

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER [1]

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts [2] we watched, were so gallantly streaming? And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, [3] What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? [4] Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto—"In God is our trust:" And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

[Footnote 1: For a brief statement of the circumstances that gave rise to the poem, see sketch of Key, page 12.]

[Footnote 2: Fort McHenry, on the north bank of the Patapsco, below Baltimore, was attacked by the British fleet, September 13, 1814.]

[Footnote 3: The attack being unsuccessful, the British became disheartened and withdrew.]

[Footnote 4: Before the attack upon Baltimore, the British had taken Washington and burned the capitol and other public buildings.

With this poem may be compared other martial lyrics, such as Hopkinson's Hail Columbia, Mrs. Howe's Battle Hymn of the Republic, Campbell's Ye Mariners of England and Battle of the Baltic, Tennyson's Charge of the Light Brigade, etc.]

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SELECTIONS FROM RICHARD HENRY WILDE

STANZAS [1]

My life is like the summer rose, That opens to the morning sky, But, ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground—to die![2] Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see— But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray: Its hold is frail—its date is brief, Restless—and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree— But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's [3] desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea— But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

A FAREWELL TO AMERICA [4]

Farewell, my more than fatherland![5] Home of my heart and friends, adieu! Lingering beside some foreign strand, How oft shall I remember you! How often, o'er the waters blue, Send back a sigh to those I leave, The loving and beloved few, Who grieve for me,—for whom I grieve!

We part!—no matter how we part, There are some thoughts we utter not, Deep treasured in our inmost heart, Never revealed, and ne'er forgot! Why murmur at the common lot? We part!—I speak not of the pain,— But when shall I each lovely spot, And each loved face behold again? It must be months,—it may be years,—[6] It may—but no!—I will not fill Fond hearts with gloom,—fond eyes with tears, "Curious to shape uncertain ill." Though humble,—few and far,—yet, still Those hearts and eyes are ever dear; Theirs is the love no time can chill, The truth no chance or change can sear!

All I have seen, and all I see, Only endears them more and more; Friends cool, hopes fade, and hours flee, Affection lives when all is o'er! Farewell, my more than native shore! I do not seek or hope to find, Roam where I will, what I deplore To leave with them and thee behind!

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Wilde, page 13. This song was translated into Greek by Anthony Barclay and announced as a newly discovered ode by Alcaeus. The trick, however, was soon detected by scholars, and the author of the poem received a due meed of praise.]

[Footnote 2: The brevity of life has been a favorite theme of poets ever since Job (vii. 6) declared, "Our days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle."]

[Footnote 3: The reference seems to be to the shore about the Bay of Tampa on the west coast of Florida.]

[Footnote 4: See page 13.]

[Footnote 5: It will be remembered that the poet was a native of Ireland.]

[Footnote 6: The years 1834-1840 were spent in Europe, chiefly in Italy.

Compare with this Byron's farewell to England, in Canto I of Childe Harold.]

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SELECTION FROM GEORGE D. PRENTICE

THE CLOSING YEAR [1]

'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling,—'tis the knell Of the departed year.

No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred, As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand— Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with his aged locks—and breathe, In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever.

'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart a specter dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts The coffin lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness.

The year Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful,— And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man,—and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er The battle plain, where sword, and spear, and shield Flashed in the light of midday—and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag—but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow,—cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water,—fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns,—mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain,—new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations,—and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away [2] To darkle in the trackless void,—yet Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Prentice, page 14. The flight of time is another favorite theme with poets. The Closing Year should be compared with Bryant's The Flood of Years; similar in theme, the two poems have much in common. The closing lines of Bryant's poem express a sweet faith that relieves the somber tone of the preceding reflections:—

"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."]

[Footnote 2. This is a reference to the belief that one of the seven stars originally supposed to form the Pleiades has disappeared. Such a phenomenon is not unknown; modern astronomers record several such disappearances. See Simms's The Lost Pleiad, following.]

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SELECTIONS FROM WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS

THE LOST PLEIAD [1]

Not in the sky, Where it was seen So long in eminence of light serene,— Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, Nor down in mansions of the hidden deep, Though beautiful in green And crystal, its great caves of mystery,— Shall the bright watcher have Her place, and, as of old, high station keep!

Gone! gone! Oh! nevermore, to cheer The mariner, who holds his course alone On the Atlantic, through the weary night, When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep, Shall it again appear, With the sweet-loving certainty of light, Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep!

The upward-looking shepherd on the hills Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks, He wonders why her beauty doth not blaze, Gladding his gaze,— And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways! How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze, Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fills The sorrowful vault!—how lingers, in the hope that night May yet renew the expected and sweet light, So natural to his sight! [2]

And lone, Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone, Brood the once happy circle of bright stars: How should they dream, until her fate was known, That they were ever confiscate to death? [3] That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars, And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, That they should fall from high; Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die, All their concerted springs of harmony Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone![4]

Ah! still the strain Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky; The sister stars, lamenting in their pain That one of the selected ones must die,— Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest! Alas! 'tis ever thus the destiny. Even Rapture's song hath evermore a tone Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone. The hope most precious is the soonest lost, The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost. Are not all short-lived things the loveliest? And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky, Look they not ever brightest, as they fly From the lone sphere they blest!

THE SWAMP FOX [5] We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, His friends and merry men are we; And when the troop of Tarleton [6] rides, We burrow in the cypress tree. The turfy hammock is our bed, Our home is in the red deer's den, Our roof, the tree-top overhead, For we are wild and hunted men.

We fly by day and shun its light, But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, We mount and start with early night, And through the forest track our foe.[7] And soon he hears our chargers leap, The flashing saber blinds his eyes, And ere he drives away his sleep, And rushes from his camp, he dies.

Free bridle bit, good gallant steed, That will not ask a kind caress To swim the Santee [8] at our need, When on his heels the foemen press,— The true heart and the ready hand, The spirit stubborn to be free, The twisted bore, the smiting brand,— And we are Marion's men, you see.

Now light the fire and cook the meal, The last, perhaps, that we shall taste; I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, And that's a sign we move in haste. He whistles to the scouts, and hark! You hear his order calm and low. Come, wave your torch across the dark, And let us see the boys that go.

We may not see their forms again, God help 'em, should they find the strife! For they are strong and fearless men, And make no coward terms for life; They'll fight as long as Marion bids, And when he speaks the word to shy, Then, not till then, they turn their steeds, Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.

Now stir the fire and lie at ease,— The scouts are gone, and on the brush I see the Colonel [9] bend his knees, To take his slumbers too. But hush! He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange; The man that's fighting day by day May well, when night comes, take a change, And down upon his knees to pray.

Break up that hoecake, boys, and hand The sly and silent jug that's there; I love not it should idly stand When Marion's men have need of cheer. 'Tis seldom that our luck affords A stuff like this we just have quaffed, And dry potatoes on our boards May always call for such a draught.

Now pile the brush and roll the log; Hard pillow, but a soldier's head That's half the time in brake and bog Must never think of softer bed. The owl is hooting to the night, The cooter [10] crawling o'er the bank, And in that pond the flashing light Tells where the alligator sank.

What! 'tis the signal! start so soon, And through the Santee swamp so deep, Without the aid of friendly moon, And we, Heaven help us! half asleep! But courage, comrades! Marion leads, The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night; So clear your swords and spur your steeds, There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, We leave the swamp and cypress tree, Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, And ready for the strife are we. The Tory camp is now in sight, And there he cowers within his den; He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, He fears, and flies from Marion's men.

[Footnote 1: See note above. There is a peculiar fitness in the reference to the sea in this poem; for the constellation of the Pleiades was named by the Greeks from their word plein, to sail, because the Mediterranean was navigable with safety during the months these stars were visible.]

[Footnote 2: The poet seems to associate the Chaldean shepherd with the Magi, who, as astrologers, observed the stars with profound interest. The hope expressed for the return of the star cannot be regarded, in the light of modern astronomy, as entirely fanciful. Only recently a new star has flamed forth in the constellation Perseus.]

[Footnote 3: The fixed stars, continually giving forth immeasurable quantities of heat, are in a process of cooling. Sooner or later they will become dark bodies. Astronomers tell us that there is reason to believe that the dark bodies or burned-out suns of the universe are more numerous than the bright ones, though the number of the latter exceeds 125 millions. The existence of such dark bodies has been established beyond a reasonable doubt.]

[Footnote 4: A reference to the old belief that the stars make music in their courses. In Job (xxxviii. 7) we read: "When the morning stars sang together." According to the Platonic philosophy, this music of the spheres, too faint for mortal ears, was heard only by the gods. Shakespeare has given beautiful expression to this belief:—

"There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." —Merchant of Venice, Act V., Sc. 1.]

[Footnote 5: See sketch of Simms, page 16. This poem is found in The Partisan, the first of three novels descriptive of the Revolution. Read a biographical sketch of General Francis Marion (1732-1795), whose shrewdness in attack and escape earned for him the sobriquet "Swamp Fox."]

[Footnote 6: Sir Banastre Tarleton (1754-1833) was a lieutenant colonel in the army of Cornwallis. He was a brilliant and successful officer, but was defeated by General Morgan in the battle of Cowpens in 1781.]

[Footnote 7: "Sumter, Marion, and other South Carolina leaders found places of refuge in the great swamps which are found in parts of the state; and from these they kept up an active warfare with the British. Their desperate battles, night marches, surprises, and hairbreadth escapes make this the most exciting and interesting period of the Revolution."—Johnston's History of the United States.]

[Footnote 8: Marion's principal field of operations lay between the Santee and Pedee rivers.]

[Footnote 9: Marion held the rank of captain at the outbreak of the Revolution, and was made lieutenant colonel for gallant conduct in the defence of Fort Moultrie, June 28, 1776. Later he was made general.]

[Footnote 10: A water tortoise or snapping turtle.]

Compare Bryant's Song of Marion's Men.

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SELECTIONS FROM EDWARD COATE PINKNEY

A HEALTH [1]

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,[2] The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,— The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon— Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. [3]

SONG

We break the glass, whose sacred wine To some beloved health we drain, Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallowed toy profane; And thus I broke a heart that poured Its tide of feelings out for thee, In draught, by after-times deplored, Yet dear to memory.

But still the old, impassioned ways And habits of my mind remain, And still unhappy light displays Thine image chambered in my brain; And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds,[4] Or that soft chain of spoken flowers and airy gems,—thy words.

VOTIVE SONG

I burn no incense, hang no wreath, On this thine early tomb: Such can not cheer the place of death, But only mock its gloom. Here odorous smoke and breathing flower No grateful influence shed; They lose their perfume and their power, When offered to the dead.

And if, as is the Afghaun's creed, The spirit may return, A disembodied sense to feed On fragrance, near its urn,— It is enough that she, whom thou Didst love in living years, Sits desolate beside it now, And fall these heavy tears.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Pinkney, page 18. The flowing or lilting melody of this and the following songs is quite remarkable. It is traceable to the skillful use of liquid consonants and short vowels, and the avoidance of harsh consonant combinations.]

[Footnote 2: The irregularities of this stanza are remarkable. The middle rhyme used in the first and seventh lines of the other stanzas is here lacking. It seems to have been an oversight on the part of the poet.]

[Footnote 3: With this drinking song we may compare the well-known one of Ben Jonson:—

"Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

"I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee."]

[Footnote 4: This same simile occurs in a beautiful poem by Amelia C. Welby (1819-1852), a Southern poet of no mean gifts, entitled Twilight at Sea:—

"The twilight hours like birds flew by, As lightly and as free; Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea; For every wave with dimpled face, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there."]

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SELECTION FROM PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE

FLORENCE VANE [1]

I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life's bright dream, and early, Hath come again; I renew, in my fond vision, My heart's dear pain; My hope, and thy derision, Florence Vane.

The ruin lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told,— That spot—the hues Elysian Of sky and plain— I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. [2] Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane.

But fairest, coldest wonder! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under— Alas the day! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain— To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The pansies love to dally Where maidens sleep; May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane, Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Cooke, page 19. In the preface to the volume from which this poem is taken, the author tells us that Florence Vane and Rosalie Lee, another brief lyric, had "met with more favor than I could ever perceive their just claim to." Hence he was kept from "venturing upon the correction of some faults." Rosalie Lee is more than usually defective in meter and rhyme, but Florence Vane cannot easily be improved.]

[Footnote 2: "My meaning, I suppose," the poet wrote an inquiring friend, "was that Florence did not want the capacity to love, but directed her love to no object. Her passions went flowing like a lost river. Byron has a kindred idea expressed by the same figure. Perhaps his verses were in my mind when I wrote my own:—

'She was the ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.'—The Dream.

But no verse ought to require to be interpreted, and if I were composing Florence Vane now, I would avoid the over concentrated expression in the two lines, and make the idea clearer."—Southern Literary Messenger, 1850, p. 370.]

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SELECTION FROM THEODORE O'HARA

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD [1]

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo: No more op Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighboring troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past; Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. [2] Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; [3] And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide.

'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, [4] And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain, [5] And long the pitying sky has wept Above its moldered slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave: She claims from war his richest spoil— The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; [6] The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulcher.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of O'Hara, page 21, for the occasion of this poem.]

[Footnote 2: The American force numbered 4769 men; the Mexican force under Santa Anna, 21,000. The latter was confident of victory, and sent a flag of truce to demand surrender. "You are surrounded by 20,000 men," wrote the Mexican general, "and cannot, in any human probability, avoid suffering a rout, and being cut to pieces with your troops." Gen. Taylor replied, "I beg leave to say that I decline acceding to your request."]

[Footnote 3: The battle raged for ten hours with varying success. There was great determination on both sides, as is shown by the heavy losses. The Americans lost 267 killed and 456 wounded; Santa Anna stated his loss at 1500, which was probably an underestimate. He left 500 dead on the field. The battle was a decisive one, and left northeastern Mexico in the hands of the Americans.]

[Footnote 4: The reference is to Zachary Taylor, who was in command of the American forces. Though born in Virginia, he was brought up in Kentucky, and won his first laurels in command of Kentuckians in the War of 1812, during which he was engaged in fighting the Indian allies of Great Britain. His victory at Buena Vista aroused great enthusiasm in the United States, and more than any other event led to his election as President.]

[Footnote 5: The plateau on which the battle was fought, so called from the mountain pass of Angostura (the narrows) leading to it from the South.]

[Footnote 6: Kentucky is here beautifully likened to a Spartan mother who was accustomed to say, as she handed a shield to her son departing for war, "Come back with this or upon this."]

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SELECTIONS FROM FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR

THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY [1]

The knightliest of the knightly race That, since the days of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band That, rarely hating ease, Yet rode with Spotswood [2] round the land, With Raleigh round the seas;

Who climbed the blue Virginian hills Against embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of happy homes With loveliness and worth.

We thought they slept!—the sons who kept The names of noble sires, And slumbered while the darkness crept Around their vigil fires; But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" knights Their Old Dominion [3] keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground. But not a knight asleep.

LITTLE GIFFEN [4]

Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire; Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, (Eighteenth battle [5] and he sixteen!) Specter! such as you seldom see, Little Giffen, of Tennessee!

"Take him and welcome!" the surgeons said; Little the doctor can help the dead! So we took him; and brought him where The balm was sweet in the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed,— Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

And we watched the war with abated breath,— Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. Months of torture, how many such? Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; And still a glint of the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn't die,

And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despite The crippled skeleton "learned to write." "Dear Mother," at first, of course; and then "Dear captain," inquiring about the men. Captain's answer: "Of eighty-and-five, Giffen and I are left alive."

Word of gloom from the war, one day; Johnston pressed at the front, they say. Little Giffen was up and away; A tear—his first—as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. "I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen.—He did not write. [6]

I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, [7] With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I'd give the best on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For "Little Giffen," of Tennessee.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Ticknor, page 22, for the occasion of this poem. In this poem the exact meaning and sequence of thought do not appear till after repeated readings.]

[Footnote 2: Alexander Spotswood (1676-1740) was governor of Virginia 1710-1723. He led an exploring expedition across the Blue Ridge and took possession of the Valley of Virginia "in the name of his Majesty King George of England." On his return to Williamsburg he presented to each of his companions a miniature golden horseshoe to be worn upon the breast. Those who took part in the expedition, which was then regarded as a formidable undertaking, were subsequently known as the "Knights of the Golden Horseshoe."]

[Footnote 3: "The Old Dominion" is a popular name for Virginia. Its origin may be traced to acts of Parliament, in which it is designated as "the colony and dominion of Virginia." In his History of Virginia (1629) Captain John Smith calls this colony and dominion Old Virginia in contradistinction to New England.]

[Footnote 4: See page 23. Of this poem Maurice Thompson said: "If there is a finer lyric than this in the whole realm of poetry, I should be glad to read it."]

[Footnote 5: Probably the battle of Murfreesboro, which opened December 31, 1862, and lasted three days. Union loss 14,000; Confederate, 11,000.]

[Footnote 6: He was killed in some battle near Atlanta early in 1864.]

[Footnote 7: A reference to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.]

With this poem should be compared Browning's Incident of the French Camp.

* * * * *

SELECTION FROM JOHN R. THOMPSON

MUSIC IN CAMP [1]

Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock's waters [2] Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its hid embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver, And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river.

And now, where circling hills looked down With cannon grimly planted, O'er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted.

When on the fervid air there came A strain—now rich, now tender; The music seemed itself aflame With day's departing splendor.

A Federal band, which, eve and morn, Played measures brave and nimble, Had just struck up, with flute and horn And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, Till, margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," And one was gray with "Rebels."

Then all was still, and then the band, With movement light and tricksy, Made stream and forest, hill and strand, Reverberate with "Dixie."

The conscious stream with burnished glow Went proudly o'er its pebbles, But thrilled throughout its deepest flow With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause, and then again The trumpets pealed sonorous, And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew, To kiss the shining pebbles; Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugles sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang— There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard That plaintive note's appealing, So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue or Gray the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o'er him; Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain In April's tearful weather, The vision vanished, as the strain And daylight died together.

And memory, waked by music's art, Expressed in simplest numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of music shines, That bright celestial creature, Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines, Gave this one touch of Nature.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of John R. Thompson, page 23.]

[Footnote 2: The incident on which the poem is based may have occurred in 1862 or 1863. In both years the Union and Confederate forces occupied opposite banks of the Rappahannock.]

* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON

Grateful acknowledgment is here made to Dr. George J. Preston of Baltimore, for permission to use the two following poems.

A NOVEMBER NOCTURNE [1]

The autumn air sweeps faint and chill Across the maple-crested hill; And on my ear Falls, tingling clear, A strange, mysterious, woodland thrill.

From utmost twig, from scarlet crown Untouched with yet a tinct of brown, Reluctant, slow, As loath to go, The loosened leaves come wavering down;

And not a hectic trembler there, In its decadence, doomed to share The fate of all,— But in its fall Flings something sob-like on the air.

No drift or dream of passing bell, Dying afar in twilight dell, Hath any heard, Whose chimes have stirred More yearning pathos of farewell.

A silent shiver as of pain, Goes quivering through each sapless vein; And there are moans, Whose undertones Are sad as midnight autumn rain.

Ah, if without its dirge-like sigh, No lightest, clinging leaf can die,— Let him who saith Decay and death Should bring no heart-break, tell me why.

Each graveyard gives the answer: there I read Resurgam[2] everywhere, So easy said Above the dead— So weak to anodyne despair.

CALLING THE ANGELS IN

We mean to do it. Some day, some day, We mean to slacken this feverish rush That is wearing our very souls away, And grant to our hearts a hush That is only enough to let them hear The footsteps of angels drawing near.

We mean to do it. Oh, never doubt, When the burden of daytime broil is o'er, We'll sit and muse while the stars come out, As the patriarchs sat in the door [3] Of their tents with a heavenward-gazing eye, To watch for angels passing by.

We've seen them afar at high noontide, When fiercely the world's hot flashings beat; Yet never have bidden them turn aside, To tarry in converse sweet; Nor prayed them to hallow the cheer we spread, To drink of our wine and break our bread.

We promise our hearts that when the stress Of the life work reaches the longed-for close, When the weight that we groan with hinders less, We'll welcome such calm repose As banishes care's disturbing din, And then—we'll call the angels in.

The day that we dreamed of comes at length, When tired of every mocking guest, And broken in spirit and shorn of strength, We drop at the door of rest, And wait and watch as the day wanes on— But the angels we meant to call are gone!

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Mrs. Preston, page 25. This and the following poem are good examples of her poetic art, and exhibit, at the same time, her reflective religious temperament.]

[Footnote 2: Resurgam (Latin), I shall rise again.]

[Footnote 3: "And Abraham sat in the tent door in the heat of the day; and he lifted up his eyes and looked, and, lo, three men stood by him: and when he saw them, he ran to meet them from the tent door, and bowed himself toward the ground, and said, My Lord, if now I have found favour in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant."—Genesis xviii. 1-3.]

* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM EDGAR ALLAN POE

TO HELEN [1]

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean [2] barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome.[3]

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, [4] from the regions which Are Holy Land! [5]

ANNABEL LEE [6]

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, [7] That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.[8]

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen [9] came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side [10] Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

THE HAUNTED PALACE [11]

In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion, It stood there; Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago), And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tuned law, Round about a throne where, sitting, Porphyrogene, In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.

And travelers now within that valley Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh—but smile no more.

THE CONQUEROR WORM [12]

Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years. An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theater to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly; Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their condor wings Invisible woe.

That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot; And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude: A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all! And over each quivering form The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

THE RAVEN [13]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore, For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore: Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door: This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore:" Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore: 'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door: Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,— "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore: Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered,—"Other friends have flown before; On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore: Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore— Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore: Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore: Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore: Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting: "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; [14] And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;[15] And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!

For a general introduction to the selections from Poe, the biographical and critical sketch in Chap. II should be read.

[Footnote 1: This was Mrs. Helen Stannard, the mother of one of Poe's schoolmates in Richmond. Her kind and gracious manner made a deep impression on his boyish heart, and soothed his passionate, turbulent nature. In after years this poem was inspired, as the poet tells us, by the memory of "the one idolatrous and purely ideal love" of his restless youth.]

[Footnote 2: The reference seems to be to the ancient Ligurian town of Nicaea, now Nice, in France. The "perfumed sea" would then be the Ligurian sea. But one half suspects that it was the scholarly and musical sound of the word, rather than any aptness of classical reference, that led to the use of the word "Nicaean."]

[Footnote 3: This appears to be Poe's indefinite and poetic way of saying that the lady's beauty and grace brought him an uplifting sense of happiness. After seeing her the first time, "He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life—to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with the oppression of a new joy."—Ingram's Edgar Allan Poe, Vol. I, p. 32.]

[Footnote 4: Psyche was represented as so exquisitely beautiful that mortals did not dare to love, but only to worship her. The poet could pay no higher tribute to "Helen."]

[Footnote 5: This little poem—very beautiful in itself—illustrates Poe's characteristics as a poet: it is indefinite, musical, and intense.]

[Footnote 6: This poem is a tribute to his wife, to whom his beautiful devotion has already been spoken of. "I believe," says Mrs. Osgood, "she was the only woman whom he ever truly loved; and this is evidenced by the exquisite pathos of the little poem lately written, called 'Annabel Lee,' of which she was the subject, and which is by far the most natural, simple, tender, and touchingly beautiful of all his songs."]

[Footnote 7: This is Poe's poetic designation of America.]

[Footnote 8: "Virginia Clemm, born on the 13th of August, 1822, was still a child when her handsome cousin Edgar revisited Baltimore after his escapade at West Point. A more than cousinly affection, which gradually grew in intensity, resulted from their frequent communion, and ultimately, whilst one, at least, of the two cousins was but a child, they were married."—Ingram's Edgar Allan Poe, Vol. I, p. 136.]

[Footnote 9: These were the angels, to whom "Annabel Lee" was akin in sweet, gentle character. "A lady angelically beautiful in person, and not less beautiful in spirit."—Captain Mayne Reid.]

[Footnote 10: This may be literally true. At all events, it is related that he visited the tomb of "Helen"; and "when the autumnal rains fell, and the winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came away most regretfully."]

[Footnote 11: This admirable poem is an allegory. The "stately palace" is a man who after a time loses his reason. With this fact in mind, the poem becomes quite clear. The "banners yellow, glorious, golden" is the hair; the "luminous windows" are the eyes; the "ruler of the realm" is reason; "the fair palace door" is the mouth; and the "evil things" are the madman's fantasies. The poem is found in The Fall of the House of Usher.

Poe claimed that Longfellow's Beleaguered City was an imitation of The Haunted Palace. The former should be read in connection with the latter. Though some resemblance may be discerned, Longfellow must be acquitted of Poe's charge of plagiarism.]

[Footnote 12: This terrible lyric is also an allegory. The "theater" is the world, and the "play" human life. The "mimes" are men, created in the image of God, and are represented as the "mere puppets" of circumstance. The "Phantom chased for evermore" is happiness; but for all, the end is death and the grave.]

[Footnote 13: This poem was first published in the New York Evening Mirror, January 29, 1845. "In our opinion," wrote the editor, N. P. Willis, "it is the most effective single example of 'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift."

The story of The Raven is given in prose by Poe in his Philosophy of Composition, which contains the best analysis of its structure: "A raven, having learned by rote the single word, 'Nevermore,' and having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams,—the chamber window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's demeanor, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply, its name. The raven addressed answers with its customary word, 'Nevermore'—a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of 'Nevermore.' The student now guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated answer, 'Nevermore.'"]

[Footnote 14: As Poe explains, the raven is "emblematical of mournful and never-ending remembrance."]

[Footnote 15: From the position of the bird it has been held that the shadow could not possibly fall upon the floor. But the author says: "My conception was that of the bracket candelabrum affixed against the wall, high up above the door and bust, as is often seen in the English palaces, and even in some of the better houses in New York."]

* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE

For their generous permission to use Aëthra, Under the Pines, Cloud Pictures, and Lyric of Action, the grateful acknowledgments of the editor are due to The Lothrop Publishing Company, Boston, who hold the copyright.

THE WILL AND THE WING [1]

To have the will to soar, but not the wings, Eyes fixed forever on a starry height, Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings Flash down the splendors of imperial light;

And yet to lack the charm [2] that makes them ours, The obedient vassals of that conquering spell, Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell;

This is the doom of Tantalus [3]—the thirst For beauty's balmy fount to quench the fires Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst In hopeless promptings—unfulfilled desires.

Yet would I rather in the outward state Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, A beggar basking by that radiant gate, [4] Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown!

For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine, And seen a far, mysterious rapture rise Beyond the veil [5] that guards the inmost shrine.

MY STUDY [6]

This is my world! within these narrow walls, I own a princely service;[7] the hot care And tumult of our frenzied life are here But as a ghost and echo; what befalls In the far mart to me is less than naught; I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies,[8] And wander by the brink of hoary seas, Calmed to the tendance of untroubled thought; Or if a livelier humor should enhance The slow-time pulse, 'tis not for present strife, The sordid zeal with which our age is rife, Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud or chance, But gleamings of the lost, heroic life, Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of romance.

AËTHRA [9]

It is a sweet tradition, with a soul Of tenderest pathos! Hearken, love!—for all The sacred undercurrents of the heart Thrill to its cordial music: Once a chief, Philantus, king of Sparta, left the stern And bleak defiles of his unfruitful land— Girt by a band of eager colonists— To seek new homes on fair Italian plains.[10] Apollo's [11] oracle had darkly spoken: "Where'er from cloudless skies a plenteous shower Outpours, the Fates decree that ye should pause And rear your household deities!" Racked by doubt Philantus traversed—with his faithful band Full many a bounteous realm; but still defeat Darkened his banners, and the strong-walled towns His desperate sieges grimly laughed to scorn! Weighed down by anxious thoughts, one sultry eve The warrior—his rude helmet cast aside— Rested his weary head upon the lap Of his fair wife, who loved him tenderly; And there he drank a generous draught of sleep. She, gazing on his brow, all worn with toil, And his dark locks, which pain had silvered over With glistening touches of a frosty rime, Wept on the sudden bitterly; her tears Fell on his face, and, wondering, he woke. "O blest art thou, my Aëthra, my clear sky." He cried exultant, "from whose pitying blue A heart-rain falls to fertilize my fate: Lo! the deep riddle's solved—the gods spake truth!"

So the next night he stormed Tarentum,[12] took The enemy's host at vantage, and o'erthrew His mightiest captains. Thence with kindly sway He ruled those pleasant regions he had won,— But dearer even than his rich demesnes The love of her whose gentle tears unlocked The close-shut mystery of the Oracle!

UNDER THE PINE [13]

To the memory of Henry Timrod

The same majestic pine is lifted high Against the twilight sky, The same low, melancholy music grieves Amid the topmost leaves,[14] As when I watched, and mused, and dreamed with him, Beneath these shadows dim.

O Tree! hast thou no memory at thy core Of one who comes no more? No yearning memory of those scenes that were So richly calm and fair, When the last rays of sunset, shimmering down, Flashed like a royal crown?

And he, with hand outstretched and eyes ablaze, Looked forth with burning [15] gaze, And seemed to drink the sunset like strong wine, Or, hushed in trance divine, Hailed the first shy and timorous glance from far Of evening's virgin star?

O Tree! against thy mighty trunk he laid His weary head; thy shade Stole o'er him like the first cool spell of sleep: It brought a peace so deep The unquiet passion died from out his eyes, As lightning from stilled skies.

And in that calm he loved to rest, and hear The soft wind-angels, clear And sweet, among the uppermost branches sighing: Voices he heard replying (Or so he dreamed) far up the mystic height, And pinions rustling light.

O Tree! have not his poet-touch, his dreams So full of heavenly gleams, Wrought through the folded dullness of thy bark, And all thy nature dark Stirred to slow throbbings, and the fluttering fire Of faint, unknown desire?

At least to me there sweeps no rugged ring That girds the forest king, No immemorial stain, or awful rent (The mark of tempest spent), No delicate leaf, no lithe bough, vine-o'ergrown, No distant, flickering cone,

But speaks of him, and seems to bring once more The joy, the love of yore; But most when breathed from out the sunset-land The sunset airs are bland, That blow between the twilight and the night, Ere yet the stars are bright;

For then that quiet eve comes back to me, When deeply, thrillingly, He spake of lofty hopes which vanquish Death; And on his mortal breath A language of immortal meanings hung, That fired his heart and tongue.

For then unearthly breezes stir and sigh, Murmuring, "Look up! 'tis I: Thy friend is near thee! Ah, thou canst not see!" And through the sacred tree Passes what seems a wild and sentient thrill— Passes, and all is still!—

Still as the grave which holds his tranquil form, Hushed after many a storm,— Still as the calm that crowns his marble brow, No pain can wrinkle now,— Still as the peace—pathetic peace of God— That wraps the holy sod,

Where every flower from our dead minstrel's dust Should bloom, a type of trust,— That faith which waxed to wings of heavenward might To bear his soul from night,— That faith, dear Christ! whereby we pray to meet His spirit at God's feet!

CLOUD PICTURES [16]

Here in these mellow grasses, the whole morn, I love to rest; yonder, the ripening corn Rustles its greenery; and his blithesome horn

Windeth the frolic breeze o'er field and dell, Now pealing a bold stave with lusty swell, Now falling to low breaths ineffable

Of whispered joyance. At calm length I lie, Fronting the broad blue spaces of the sky, Covered with cloud-groups, softly journeying by:

An hundred shapes, fantastic, beauteous, strange, Are theirs, as o'er yon airy waves they range At the wind's will, from marvelous change to change;

Castles, with guarded roof, and turret tall, Great sloping archway, and majestic wall, Sapped by the breezes to their noiseless fall!

Pagodas vague! above whose towers outstream Banners that wave with motions of a dream— Rising, or drooping in the noontide gleam;

Gray lines of Orient pilgrims: a gaunt band On famished camels, o'er the desert sand Plodding towards their prophet's Holy Land;

Mid-ocean,—and a shoal of whales at play, Lifting their monstrous frontlets to the day, Thro' rainbow arches of sun-smitten spray;

Followed by splintered icebergs, vast and lone, Set in swift currents of some arctic zone, Like fragments of a Titan's world o'erthrown;

Next, measureless breadths of barren, treeless moor, Whose vaporous verge fades down a glimmering shore, Round which the foam-capped billows toss and roar!

Calms of bright water—like a fairy's wiles, Wooing with ripply cadence and soft smiles, The golden shore-slopes of Hesperian Isles;

Their inland plains rife with a rare increase Of plumèd grain! and many a snowy fleece Shining athwart the dew-lit hills of peace;

Wrecks of gigantic cities—to the tune Of some wise air-god built!—o'er which the noon Seems shuddering; caverns, such as the wan Moon

Shows in her desolate bosom; then, a crowd Of awed and reverent faces, palely bowed O'er a dead queen, laid in her ashy shroud—

A queen of eld—her pallid brow impearled By gems barbaric! her strange beauty furled In mystic cerements of the antique world.

Weird pictures, fancy-gendered!—one by one, 'Twixt blended beams and shadows, gold and dun, These transient visions vanish in the sun.

LYRIC OF ACTION [17]

'Tis the part of a coward to brood O'er the past that is withered and dead: What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the heart's music be fled? Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead, Whence the voice of an angel thrills clear on the soul, "Gird about thee thine armor, press on to the goal!"

If the faults or the crimes of thy youth Are a burden too heavy to bear, What hope can re-bloom on the desolate waste Of a jealous and craven despair? Down, down with the fetters of fear! In the strength of thy valor and manhood arise, With the faith that illumes and the will that defies.

"Too late!" through God's infinite world, From his throne to life's nethermost fires, "Too late!" is a phantom that flies at the dawn Of the soul that repents and aspires. If pure thou hast made thy desires, There's no height the strong wings of immortals may gain Which in striving to reach thou shalt strive for in vain.

Then, up to the contest with fate, Unbound by the past, which is dead! What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the heart's music be fled? Still shine the fair heavens o'erhead; And sublime as the seraph [18] who rules in the sun Beams the promise of joy when the conflict is won!

For a general introduction to the following poems, see Chapter III. The selections are intended to exhibit the poet's various moods and themes.

[Footnote 1: This poem, which appeared in the volume of 1855 under the title Aspirations, gives expression to a strong literary impulse. It was genuine in sentiment, and its aspiring spirit and forceful utterance gave promise of no ordinary achievement.]

[Footnote 2: An act or formula supposed to exert a magical influence or power.

"Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands." —Tennyson's Merlin and Vivien.

Compare the first scene in Faust where the Earth-spirit comes in obedience to a "conquering spell."]

[Footnote 3: Tantalus was a character of Greek mythology, who, for divulging the secret counsels of Zeus, was afflicted in the lower world with an insatiable thirst. He stood up to the chin in a lake, the waters of which receded whenever he tried to drink of them.]

[Footnote 4: The poet evidently had in mind the lame man who was "laid daily at the gate of the temple which is called Beautiful."—Acts iii. 2.]

[Footnote 5: A reference to the veil that hung before the Most Holy Place, or "inmost shrine," of the temple. Compare Exodus xxvi. 33.]

[Footnote 6: This sonnet, which appeared in the volume of 1859, reveals the retiring, meditative temper of the poet. To him quiet reflection was more than action. He loved to dwell in spirit with the good and great of the past. The rude struggles of the market-place for wealth and power were repugnant to his refined and sensitive nature.]

[Footnote 7: Something served for the refreshment of a person; here an intellectual feast fit for a prince.]

[Footnote 8: Arcady, or Arcadia, is a place of ideal simplicity and contentment; so called from a picturesque district in Greece, which was noted for the simplicity and happiness of its people.]

[Footnote 9: This poem will serve to illustrate Hayne's skill in the use of blank verse. It is a piece of rare excellence and beauty. The name of the heroine is pronounced Ee-thra.]

[Footnote 10: This migration occurred about 708 B.C.]

[Footnote 11: Apollo was one of the major deities of Grecian mythology. He was regarded, among other things, as the god of song or minstrelsy, and also as the god of prophetic inspiration. The most celebrated oracle of Apollo was at Delphi.]

[Footnote 12: A town in southern Italy, now Taranto. It was in ancient times a place of great commercial importance.]

[Footnote 13: For the occasion of this poem, see page 61. The poet had a peculiar fondness for the pine, which in one of his poems he calls—

"My sylvan darling! set 'twixt shade and sheen, Soft as a maid, yet stately as a queen!"

It is the subject of a half-dozen poems,—The Voice of the Pines, Aspect of the Pines, In the Pine Barrens, The Dryad of the Pine, The Pine's Mystery, and The Axe and the Pine,—all of them in his happiest vein.]

[Footnote 14: In The Pine's Mystery we read:—

"Passion and mystery murmur through the leaves, Passion and mystery, touched by deathless pain, Whose monotone of long, low anguish grieves For something lost that shall not live again."]

[Footnote 15: Hayne's very careful workmanship is rarely at fault; but here there seems to be an infelicitous epithet that amounts to a sort of tautology. "Eyes ablaze" would necessarily "look forth with burning gaze."]

[Footnote 16: This poem illustrates the poet's method of dealing with Nature. He depicts its beauty as discerned by the artistic imagination. He is less concerned with the messages of Nature than with its lovely forms. This poem, in its felicitous word-painting, reminds us of Tennyson, though it would be difficult to find in the English poet so brilliant a succession of masterly descriptions.

With this poem may be compared Hayne's Cloud Fantasies, a sonnet that brings before us, with great vividness, the somber appearance of the clouds in autumn. See also A Phantom in the Clouds. No other of our poets has dwelt so frequently and so delightfully on the changing aspects of the sky.

Compare Shelley's The Cloud.]

[Footnote 17: It is not often that Hayne assumed the hortatory tone found in this poem. In artistic temperament he was akin to Keats rather than to Longfellow. Even in his didactic poems, he is meditative and descriptive rather than hortatory. The artist in him hardly ever gave place to the preacher.]

[Footnote 18: The seraph's name was Uriel, that is, God's Light. In Revelation (xix. 17) we read, "And I saw an angel standing in the sun." Milton calls him—

"The Archangel Uriel—one of the seven Who in God's presence, nearest to his throne, Stand ready at command." —Paradise Lost, Book III, 648-650.]

* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM HARRY TIMROD

TOO LONG, O SPIRIT OF STORM [1]

Too long, O Spirit of storm, Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath! I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky, And the moveless sea beneath.

Come down in thy strength on the deep! Worse dangers there are in life, When the waves are still, and the skies look fair, Than in their wildest strife.

A friend I knew, whose days Were as calm as this sky overhead; But one blue morn that was fairest of all, The heart in his bosom fell dead.

And they thought him alive while he walked The streets that he walked in youth— Ah! little they guessed the seeming man Was a soulless corpse in sooth.

Come down in thy strength, O Storm! And lash the deep till it raves! I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea, Which hides ten thousand graves.

A CRY TO ARMS [2]

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre,[3] leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade.

The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armèd bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain; And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain!

Come, with the weapons at your call— With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn.

Does any falter? let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh! could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch.

What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The Lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the Palm Tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack [4] that sweeps the plain; And from the Lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain!

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come! flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our Country's right, And for the Lily's sake!

ODE [5]

I

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause.

II

In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone![6]

III

Meanwhile, behalf [7] the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms.

IV

Small tributes! but your shades will smile More proudly on these wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon-molded pile [8] Shall overlook this bay.

V

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned.

FLOWER-LIFE [9]

I think that, next to your sweet eyes, And pleasant books, and starry skies, I love the world of flowers; Less for their beauty of a day, Than for the tender things they say, And for a creed I've held alway, That they are sentient powers.[10]

It may be matter for a smile— And I laugh secretly the while I speak the fancy out— But that they love, and that they woo, And that they often marry too, And do as noisier creatures do, I've not the faintest doubt.

And so, I cannot deem it right To take them from the glad sunlight, As I have sometimes dared; Though not without an anxious sigh Lest this should break some gentle tie, Some covenant of friendship, I Had better far have spared.

And when, in wild or thoughtless hours, My hand hath crushed the tiniest flowers, I ne'er could shut from sight The corpses of the tender things, With other drear imaginings, And little angel-flowers with wings Would haunt me through the night.

Oh! say you, friend, the creed is fraught With sad, and even with painful thought, Nor could you bear to know That such capacities belong To creatures helpless against wrong, At once too weak to fly the strong Or front the feeblest foe?

So be it always, then, with you; So be it—whether false or true— I press my faith on none; If other fancies please you more, The flowers shall blossom as before, Dear as the Sibyl-leaves [11] of yore, But senseless every one.

Yet, though I give you no reply, It were not hard to justify My creed to partial ears; But, conscious of the cruel part, My rhymes would flow with faltering art, I could not plead against your heart, Nor reason with your tears.

SONNET [12]

Poet! if on a lasting fame be bent Thy unperturbing hopes, thou wilt not roam Too far from thine own happy heart and home; Cling to the lowly earth and be content!

So shall thy name be dear to many a heart; So shall the noblest truths by thee be taught; The flower and fruit of wholesome human thought Bless the sweet labors of thy gentle art.

The brightest stars are nearest to the earth, And we may track the mighty sun above, Even by the shadow of a slender flower. Always, O bard, humility is power! And thou mayest draw from matters of the hearth Truths wide as nations, and as deep as love.

SONNET [13]

Most men know love but as a part of life;[14] They hide it in some corner of the breast, Even from themselves; and only when they rest In the brief pauses of that daily strife,

Wherewith the world might else be not so rife, They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy) And hold it up to sister, child, or wife.

Ah me! why may not love and life be one?[15] Why walk we thus alone, when by our side, Love, like a visible God, might be our guide? How would the marts grow noble! and the street, Worn like a dungeon floor by weary feet, Seem then a golden court-way of the Sun!

THE SUMMER BOWER [16]

It is a place whither I have often gone For peace, and found it, secret, hushed, and cool, A beautiful recess in neighboring woods. Trees of the soberest hues, thick-leaved and tall. Arch it o'erhead and column it around, Framing a covert, natural and wild, Domelike and dim; though nowhere so enclosed But that the gentlest breezes reach the spot Unwearied and unweakened. Sound is here A transient and unfrequent visitor; Yet, if the day be calm, not often then, Whilst the high pines in one another's arms Sleep, you may sometimes with unstartled ear Catch the far fall of voices, how remote You know not, and you do not care to know. The turf is soft and green, but not a flower Lights the recess, save one, star-shaped and bright— I do not know its name—which here and there Gleams like a sapphire set in emerald. A narrow opening in the branchèd roof, A single one, is large enough to show, With that half glimpse a dreamer loves so much, The blue air and the blessing of the sky. Thither I always bent my idle steps, When griefs depressed, or joys disturbed my heart, And found the calm I looked for, or returned Strong with the quiet rapture in my soul.[17] But one day, One of those July days when winds have fled One knows not whither, I, most sick in mind With thoughts that shall be nameless, yet, no doubt, Wrong, or at least unhealthful, since though dark With gloom, and touched with discontent, they had No adequate excuse, nor cause, nor end, I, with these thoughts, and on this summer day, Entered the accustomed haunt, and found for once No medicinal virtue. Not a leaf Stirred with the whispering welcome which I sought, But in a close and humid atmosphere, Every fair plant and implicated bough Hung lax and lifeless. Something in the place, Its utter stillness, the unusual heat, And some more secret influence, I thought, Weighed on the sense like sin. Above I saw, Though not a cloud was visible in heaven, The pallid sky look through a glazèd mist Like a blue eye in death. The change, perhaps, Was natural enough; my jaundiced sight, The weather, and the time explain it all: Yet have I drawn a lesson from the spot, And shrined it in these verses for my heart. Thenceforth those tranquil precincts I have sought Not less, and in all shades of various moods; But always shun to desecrate the spot By vain repinings, sickly sentiments, Or inconclusive sorrows. Nature, though Pure as she was in Eden when her breath Kissed the white brow of Eve, doth not refuse, In her own way and with a just reserve, To sympathize with human suffering;[18] But for the pains, the fever, and the fret Engendered of a weak, unquiet heart, She hath no solace; and who seeks her when These be the troubles over which he moans, Reads in her unreplying lineaments Rebukes, that, to the guilty consciousness, Strike like contempt.

For a general introduction to the following selections, see Chapter IV. The poet's verse is perfectly clear. He prefers to

"Cling to the lowly and be content."

[Footnote 1: This poem, which first appeared in Russell's Magazine, exhibits one of Timrod's characteristics: he does not describe Nature for its own sake, as Hayne often does, but for the sake of some truth or lesson in relation to man. The lesson of this poem is that a life of uninterrupted ease and comfort is not favorable to the development of noble character.]

[Footnote 2: This selection illustrates the fierce energy of the poet's martial lyrics. Compare Bannockburn by Burns, which Carlyle said "should be sung with the throat of the whirlwind."]

[Footnote 3: Byre is a cow-stable.]

[Footnote 4: Rack, usually wrack, signifies ruin or destruction.]

[Footnote 5: This lyric, which was sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead in Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina, in 1867, has been much admired, especially the last stanza.]

[Footnote 6: It is interesting to know that this prediction has been fulfilled. A monument of granite now stands above the dead.]

[Footnote 7: Behalf, instead of in behalf of, is a rather hazardous construction.]

[Footnote 8: A noble bronze figure of a color bearer on a granite pedestal now commemorates the fallen heroes.]

[Footnote 9: This poem first appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger in 1851. The first stanza of this half-playful, half-serious piece, mentions the objects in which the poet most delighted.]

[Footnote 10: This belief has been frequently held, and has some support from recent scientific experiments. But that this sentiency goes as far as the poet describes, is of course pure fancy.]

[Footnote 11: The sibyls (Sybil is an incorrect form) were, according to ancient mythology, prophetic women. The sibylline leaves or books contained their teachings, and were preserved with the utmost care in Rome. The sibyl of Cumae conducted Aeneas through the under world, as narrated in the sixth book of Virgil's Aeneid.]

[Footnote 12: This sonnet expresses the poet's creed, to which his practice was confirmed. This fact imparts unusual simplicity to his verse—a simplicity that strikes us all the more at the present time, when an over-refinement of thought and expression is in vogue.]

[Footnote 13: This sonnet, on the commonest of all poetic themes, treats of love in a deep, serious way. It is removed as far as possible from the sentimental.]

[Footnote 14: This line reminds us of a well-known passage in Byron:— "Man's love is of man's life a thing apart; 'Tis woman's whole existence. Man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange."]

[Footnote 15: This is the divine ideal, the realization of which will bring the true "Golden Age." "God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him."—I John iv. 16.]

[Footnote 16: This poem first appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger in 1852. It will serve to show Timrod's manner of using blank verse. It will be observed that "a lesson" is again the principal thing.]

[Footnote 17: This recalls the closing lines of Longfellow's Sunrise on the Hills:—

"If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills! No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears."]

[Footnote 18: Compare the following lines from Bryant's 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."]

* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM SIDNEY LANIER

SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE [1]

Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall,[2] The hurrying rain,[3] to reach the plain, Has run the rapid and leapt the fall, Split at the rock and together again, Accepted his bed, or narrow or wide, And fled from folly on every side, With a lover's pain to attain the plain, Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham, All through the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried, Abide, abide; The wilful water weeds held me thrall, The laurel, slow-laving,[4] turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said stay, The dewberry dipped for to win delay,[5] And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, Here in the hills of Habersham, Here in the valleys of Hall.

High over the hills of Habersham, Veiling the valleys of Hall, The hickory told me manifold Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, Said, Pass not so cold these manifold Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, These glades in the valleys of Hall.

And oft in the hills of Habersham, And oft in the valleys of Hall, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone Barred[6] me of passage with friendly brawl, And many a metal lay sad, alone, And the diamond, the garnet, the amethyst, And the crystal that prisons a purple mist, Showed lights like my own from each cordial stone[7] In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall, Shall hinder the rain from attaining the plain,[8] For downward the voices of duty call— Downward to toil and be mixed with the main. The dry fields burn and the mills are to turn, And a thousand meadows [9] mortally yearn, And the final [10] main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, And calls through the valleys of Hall.

THE CRYSTAL [11]

At midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time, When far within the spirit's hearing rolls The great soft rumble of the course of things— A bulk of silence in a mask of sound— When darkness clears our vision that by day Is sun-blind, and the soul's a ravening owl For truth, and flitteth here and there about Low-lying woody tracts of time and oft Is minded for to sit upon a bough, Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree And muse in that gaunt place,—'twas then my heart, Deep in the meditative dark, cried out:

Ye companies of governor-spirits grave, Bards, and old bringers-down of flaming news From steep-walled heavens, holy malcontents, Sweet seers, and stellar visionaries, all That brood about the skies of poesy, Full bright ye shine, insuperable stars; Yet, if a man look hard upon you, none With total luster blazeth, no, not one But hath some heinous freckle of the flesh Upon his shining cheek, not one but winks His ray, opaqued with intermittent mist Of defect; yea, you masters all must ask Some sweet forgiveness, which we leap to give, We lovers of you, heavenly-glad to meet Your largess so with love, and interplight Your geniuses with our mortalities.

Thus unto thee, O sweetest Shakspere sole,[12] A hundred hurts a day I do forgive ('Tis little, but, enchantment! 'tis for thee): Small curious quibble; … Henry's fustian roar Which frights away that sleep he invocates;[13] Wronged Valentine's [14] unnatural haste to yield; Too-silly shifts of maids that mask as men In faint disguises that could ne'er disguise— Viola, Julia, Portia, Rosalind;[15] Fatigues most drear, and needless overtax Of speech obscure that had as lief be plain.

… Father Homer, thee, Thee also I forgive thy sandy wastes Of prose and catalogue,[16] thy drear harangues That tease the patience of the centuries, Thy sleazy scrap of story,—but a rogue's Rape of a light-o'-love,[17]—too soiled a patch To broider with the gods.

Thee, Socrates,[18] Thou dear and very strong one, I forgive Thy year-worn cloak, thine iron stringencies That were but dandy upside-down,[19] thy words Of truth that, mildlier spoke, had manlier wrought.

So, Buddha,[20] beautiful! I pardon thee That all the All thou hadst for needy man Was Nothing, and thy Best of being was But not to be.

Worn Dante,[21] I forgive The implacable hates that in thy horrid hells Or burn or freeze thy fellows, never loosed By death, nor time, nor love.

And I forgive Thee, Milton, those thy comic-dreadful wars [22] Where, armed with gross and inconclusive steel, Immortals smite immortals mortalwise, And fill all heaven with folly.

Also thee, Brave Aeschylus,[23] thee I forgive, for that Thine eye, by bare bright justice basilisked, Turned not, nor ever learned to look where Love Stands shining.

So, unto thee, Lucretius [24] mine, (For oh, what heart hath loved thee like to this That's now complaining?) freely I forgive Thy logic poor, thine error rich, thine earth Whose graves eat souls and all.

Yea, all you hearts Of beauty, and sweet righteous lovers large: Aurelius [25] fine, oft superfine; mild Saint A Kempis,[26] overmild; Epictetus,[27] Whiles low in thought, still with old slavery tinct; Rapt Behmen,[28] rapt too far; high Swedenborg,[29] O'ertoppling; Langley,[30] that with but a touch Of art hadst sung Piers Plowman to the top Of English songs, whereof 'tis dearest, now, And most adorable; Caedmon,[31] in the morn A-calling angels with the cowherd's call That late brought up the cattle; Emerson, Most wise, that yet, in finding Wisdom, lost Thy Self, sometimes; tense Keats, with angels' nerves Where men's were better; Tennyson, largest voice Since Milton, yet some register of wit Wanting,—all, all, I pardon, ere 'tis asked, Your more or less, your little mole that marks Your brother and your kinship seals to man. But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time, But Thee, O poets' Poet, Wisdom's Tongue, But Thee, O man's best Man, O love's best Love, O perfect life in perfect labor writ, O all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest,— What if or yet, what mole, what flaw, what lapse, What least defect or shadow of defect, What rumor, tattled by an enemy, Of inference loose, what lack of grace Even in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's,— Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee, Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ?[32]

SUNRISE [33]

In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main. The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep; Up breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep, Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting, Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting, Came to the gates of sleep.

Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep, Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling: The gates of sleep fell a-trembling Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter yes, Shaken with happiness: The gates of sleep stood wide.

I have waked, I have come, my beloved! I might not abide: I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to hide In your gospeling glooms,[34]—to be As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea. Tell me, sweet burly-barked, man-bodied Tree That mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost know From what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow? They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps. Reason's not one that weeps. What logic of greeting lies Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes?

O cunning green leaves, little masters! like as ye gloss All the dull-tissued dark with your luminous darks that emboss. The vague blackness of night into pattern and plan, So, (But would I could know, but would I could know,) With your question embroid'ring the dark of the question of man,— So, with your silences purfling this silence of man While his cry to the dead for some knowledge is under the ban, Under the ban,— So, ye have wrought me Designs on the night of our knowledge,—yea, ye have taught me, So, That haply we know somewhat more than we know.

Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms, Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms, Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves, Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves,[35] Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me,— Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet That advise me of more than they bring,—repeat Me the woods-smell that swiftly but now brought breath From the heaven-side bank of the river of death,— Teach me the terms of silence,—preach me The passion of patience,—sift me,—impeach me,— And there, oh there As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air, Pray me a myriad prayer.[36]