SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE.
Reading edition
FITZ GREENE HALLECK.
If one is not too critical there is a good deal of pleasure to be got out of Halleck’s volume.—National Magazine (1852).
Dana, Halleck and Bryant rose together on steady wings and gave voices to the solitude; Dana with a broad, grave undertone like that of the sea; Bryant with a sound as of the wind in summer woods, and the fall of waters in mountain dells; and Halleck with strains blown from a silver trumpet, breathing manly fire and courage.—Bayard Taylor.
To * * * *
The world is bright before thee, Its summer flowers are thine, Its calm, blue sky is o’er thee, Thy bosom pleasure’s shrine; And thine the sunbeam given, To nature’s morning hour, Pure, warm, as when from heaven It burst on Eden’s bower. There is a song of sorrow, The death-dirge of the gay, That tells, ere dawn of morrow, These charms may melt away, That sun’s bright beam be shaded, That sky be blue no more, The summer flowers be faded, And youth’s warm promise o’er. Believe it not, though lonely Thy evening home may be; Though beauty’s bark can only Float on a summer sea; Though time thy bloom is stealing, There’s still beyond his art The wild-flower wreath of feeling, The sunbeam of the heart.
In Memory of Joseph Rodman Drake.
Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise. Tears fell when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep. When hearts whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth; And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine,— It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I’ve in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee.
There are some happy moments in this lone And desolate world of ours, that well repay The toil of struggling through it, and atone For many a long, sad night and weary day. They come upon the mind like some wild air Of distant music, when we know not where, Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power, Though brief, is boundless.
RICHARD HENRY DANA.
Among the first to make a creditable appearance in the field of American literature was Richard Henry Dana, the last of the writers of his generation who achieved success both in prose and verse, and won the right to be ranked among the most vigorous authors of the first half of the present century.—James Grant Wilson.
From “THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL.”
Turn with me from pining thought And all the inward ills that sin has wrought; Come, send abroad a love for all who live, And feel the deep content in turn they give. Kind wishes and good deeds—they make not poor; They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door. The streams of love flow back where they begin; For springs of outward joys lie deep within. E’en let them flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow-men, shouldst thou be sad, And earth seems bare, and hours, once happy, press Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear The music of those waters running near; And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, And thine eye gladden with the playing beam, That now upon the water dances. Now, Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough. Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that wrought so beautiful a spell? In thine own bosom, brother? Then, as thine, Guard with a reverent fear this power divine, And if, indeed, ’tis not the outward state, But temper of the soul, by which we rate Sadness or joy, e’en let thy bosom move With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love; And let each feeling in thy breast be given An honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven, And springing into act, new life imparts, Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts. The earth is full of life; the living hand Touched it with life; and all its forms expand With principles of being made to suit Man’s varied powers, and raise from the brute. And shall the earth of higher ends be full,— Earth which thou tread’st,—and thy poor mind be dull, Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep! Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leap Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow Thro’ thy soul’s shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou know Something of what is life, shake off this death; Have thy soul feel the universal breath With which all nature’s quick, and learn to be Sharer in all thou dost touch or see; Break from thy body’s grasp, thy spirit’s trance; Give to thy soul air, thy faculties expanse; Love, joy, e’en sorrow—yield thyself to all! They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall, Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind To dust and sense, and set at large the mind; Then move in sympathy with God’s great whole; And be, like man at first, A Living Soul!
A Clump of Daisies.
Ye daisies gay, This fresh spring day Closed gathered here together, To play in the light, To sleep all the night, To abide through the sullen weather; Ye creatures bland, A simple band, Ye free ones, linked in pleasure, And linked when your forms Stoop low in the storms, And the rain comes down without measure; When the wild clouds fly Athwart the sky, And ghostly shadows, glancing, Are darkening the gleam Of the hurrying stream, And your close, bright heads gayly dancing; Though dull awhile, Again ye smile; For, see, the warm sun breaking; The stream’s going glad, There’s nothing now sad, And the small bird his song is waking. The dew-drop sip With dainty lip! The sun is low descended, And moon, softly fall On troops true and small; Sky and earth in one kindly blended. And, morning! spread Their jewelled bed With lights in the east sky springing; And, brook! breathe around Thy low murmured sound! May they move, ye birds, to your singing; For in their play I hear them say, Here, man, thy wisdom borrow; In heart be a child, In words, true and mild; Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Bryant’s writings transport us into the depths of the solemn, primeval forest, to the shores of the lonely lakes, the banks of the wild, nameless stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like a promontory from amidst a wild ocean of foliage; while they shed around us the glory of a climate fierce in its extremes, but splendid in its vicissitudes.—Washington Irving.
His soul is charity itself—in all respects generous and noble.—Edgar A. Poe.
We may have had elsewhere as faithful citizens; as industrious journalists; as ripe scholars, and poets, it may be, equally gifted and inspired, but where have we had another who has combined in his own person all these? In him a rare combination of extraordinary qualities was united; strength and gentleness, elevation of thought and childlike simplicity, genius, common-sense, and practical wisdom. Where there were controverted questions, whether men agreed with him or not, they never for an instant doubted his nobleness of purpose.—Rev. R. C. Waterston.
To the Fringed 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 drest, 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 portend The aged year is near its 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.