Massachusetts, with the support of the leading members of the Federal party, to which, till the close of the war with England, it was a devoted adherent. In 1826 Mr. Bryant began to write for its columns. On the death of Coleman in 1829, William Leggett was employed as assistant editor, and remained with the paper till 1836, when he retired on the return of Mr. Bryant from Europe. It now remained in Mr. Bryant's sole editorial hands, assisted by various contributors, including the regular aid of his son-in-law, Mr. Parke Godwin, till the purchase by Mr. John Bigelow of a share of the paper in 1850, since which time he has been associated in the editorship. In the first years of his engagement in these editorial duties, Bryant wrote, in conjunction with his friends Sands and Verplanck, The Talisman, in three annual volumes, 1827-29-30; the collection entitled, "Tales of the Glauber Spa," in 1832. His contributions to the "Talisman," besides a few poems, were an Adventure in the East Indies, The Cascade of Melsingah, Recollections of the South of Spain, A Story of the Island of Cuba, The Indian Spring, The Whirlwind, Phanette des Gaulelmes, and the Marriage Blunder. He also assisted in writing The Legend of the Devil's Pulpit, and Reminiscences of New York. For the Tales of the Glauber Spa, he wrote the Skeleton's Cave and Medfield. He has since from time to time published new poems in the periodicals of the day, which he has collected at intervals in new editions.* In the Evening Post have also appeared several series of Letters from Europe, the Southern States, MC. Byards and the West Indies, which mark the period of the author's travels at various times from 1834 to The first general collection was published by Elam Bliss, a bookseller of great liberality and worth, a gentleman by nature, and a warm friend of the poet, in 1832; followed by another in Boston; others subsequently in New York from the press of the Harpers. In 1846 a richly illustrated edition, with engravings from original designs, by the painter Leutze, was published by Carey and Hart in Philadelphia. New editions of the poems, in three different forms, were published by the Appletons in New York, in 1855, 1853. The last tour extended to the Holy Land. A collection of these papers has been published by Putnam, entitled Letters of a Traveller; or, Notes of Things Seen in Europe and America. Among Mr. Bryant's separate publications should be mentioned his Eulogy of his friend Thomas Cole, the artist, delivered in New York in 1848, and a similar tribute to the genius of Cooper the novelist, in 1852. The style of these addresses, and of the author's other prose writings, is remarkable for its purity and clearness. Its truthfulness, in accuracy of thought and diction, is a constant charm to those who know the value of words, and have felt the poverty of exaggerated language. This extends to the daily articles written by the author in his newspaper, where no haste or interruptions are suffered to set aside his fastidious and jealous guardianship, not merely of sincere statement but of its pure expression. The style must have been formed at the outset by a vigorous nature, which can thus resist the usually pernicious influences of more than a quarter of a century of editorial wear and tear. The poems of Bryant may be classed, with regard to their subjects:-those expressing a universal interest, relative to the great conditions of humanity, as Thanatopsis, The Ages, Hymn to Death, The Past; types of nature symbolical of these, as the Winds; poems of a national and patriotic sentiment, or expressive of the heroic in character, as the Song of Marion's Men, the Indian Poems, and some foreign subjects mingled with translations. Of these, probably the most enduring will be those which draw their vitality more immediately from the American soil. In these there is a purity of nature, and a certain rustic grace, which speak at once the nature of the poet and his subject. Mr. Bryant has been a close student of English poetry through its several periods, and while his taste would lead him to admire those who have minutely painted the scenes of nature, his fidelity to his own thoughts and experiences has preserved him from imitation of any. Mr. Dana, in his preface to his reprint of his "Idle Man," speaks of a poetic influence in the early period of Bryant's career. "I shall never forget," says he, "with what feeling my friend Bryant, some years ago,* described to me the effect produced upon him by his meeting for the first time with Wordsworth's Ballads. He lived, when quite young, where but few works of poetry were to be had; at a period, too, when Pope was still the great idol of the Temple of Art. He said, that upon opening Wordsworth, a thousand springs seemed to gush up at once in his heart, and the face of nature, of a sudden, to change into a strange freshness and life." This may have been a seed sown in a generous nature, but the predetermined quality of the soil has marked the form and fragrance of the plant. It is American air we breathe, and American nature we see in his verses, and "the plain living and high thinking" of what should constitute American sentiment inspire them. Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless This was written in 1888. To him who in the love of Nature holds Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, Lines by Halleck, in his poem, "The Recorder." And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Yet not to thine eternal resting-place That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes So live, that when thy summons comes to join There is a Power whose care Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, JUNE. I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round; The sexton's hand, my grave to make, A cell within the frozen mould, While fierce the tempests beat- Earth green beneath the feet, There through the long, long summer hours And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Should rest him there, and there be heard Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around I know, I know I should not see Soft airs, and song, and fight, and bloom, Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS, The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, The twilight of the trees and rocks Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene TO THE EVENING WIND. Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth, into the gathering shade; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone; Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; This stanza is not included in the editions of Mr. Bryant's Poems. It appeared in "The Poets of America," published by Mr. John Keese, and illustrated by Chapman. The stanza is said to have been written at Mr. Keese's suggestion, to supply what is certainly an appropriate addition in keeping with the sentiment of the piece. Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 7 BONG OF MARION'S MEN. Our band is few, but true and tried, When Marion's name is told. As seamen know the sea. Wo to the English soldiery That little dread us near! And hear the tramp of thousands Then sweet the hour that brings release We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, And woodland flowers are gathered On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. That lifts their tossing manes. Grave men there are by broad Santee, For Marion are their prayers. THE BATTLE-FIELD. Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crow 1, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave- Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry, Oh, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou And blench not at thy chosen lot. The sage may frown-yet faint thou not. When they who helped thee flee in fear, Like those who fell in battle here. Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. THE LAND OF DREAMS. A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams, With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, And weltering oceans and trailing streams, That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. But over its shadowy border flow Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, And the nearer mountains catch the glow, And flowers in the nearer fields are born. The souls of the happy dead repair, From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, And walk in the fainter glory there, With the souls of the living hand in hand. One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, To dimmer mountains and darker vales. There lie the chambers of guilty delight, The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower O keep where that beam of Paradise falls, And only wander where thou may'st meet The blessed ones from its shining walls. So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, With love and peace to this world of strife; And the light that over its border streams Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Robert of Lincoln is gaily drest, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature, you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she: One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link. Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! Soon as the little ones chip the shell |