Chapter C: B. a (1)

[_Recitation for Two Students._]

FIRST.

There sat two glasses filled to the brim
On a rich man’s table, rim to rim;
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one was as clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to the paler brother:

SECOND.

“Let us tell the tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of a banquet and revel and mirth,
Where the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch as though struck by blight;
For I was a king, and I ruled in might;
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown,
From the height of fame I have hurled men down,
I have blasted many an honored name;
I have taken virtue and given shame;
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from the iron rail;
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me;
For they said, ‘Behold, how great you be!
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before you fall,
And your might and power are over all.’
Ho! ho! pale brother,” laughed the wine,
“Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?”

FIRST.

Said the water-glass: “I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host;
But I can tell of a heart once sad,
By my crystal drops made light and glad;
Of thirsts I’ve quenched, and brows I’ve laved;
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved;
I have slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye;
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain;
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
That ground out the flour and turned at my will;
I can tell of manhood debased by you,
That I have lifted and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
I gladden the heart of man and maid;
I set the chained wine-captive free,
And all are better for knowing me.”

SECOND.

These are the tales they told each other,
The glass of wine and its paler brother,
As they sat together, filled to the brim,
On the rich man’s table, rim to rim.

THE SORROW OF THE SEA.

_Concert._ I stood on the shore of the beautiful sea,
And the billows were rolling wild and free;
Onward they came with unfailing force,
Then backward turned in their restless course.
Ever and ever they rose and fell,
With heaving and surging and mighty swell:
Ever and ever sounded their roar,
Foaming and dashing against the shore.

_Solo._ Oh, when shall the ocean’s troubled breast
Calmly and quietly sink to rest?
When shall the waves’ wild murmurs cease
And the mighty waters be hushed in peace?

_Concert._ It cannot be quiet; it cannot rest.
There must be heaving on ocean’s breast,
The tide must ebb and the tide must flow
While the changing seasons come and go.
Oh, strangely glorious, beautiful sea,
Sounding forever mysteriously,
Why are thy billows still rolling on
With that wild and sad and musical tone?
Why is there never repose for thee
O mighty, murmuring, sounding sea?

_Solo._ Then the ocean’s voice I seemed to hear,
Mournfully, solemnly sounding near,
Telling of loved ones buried there,
Of the dying shriek and the dying prayer;
Telling of hearts still watching in vain
For those who shall never come back again;
Oh, no! the ocean can never rest
With such secrets hidden within its breast.
But a day shall come, a blessed day,
When earthly sorrow shall pass away,
When the hour of anguish shall turn to peace,
And even the roar of the waves shall cease.

_Concert._ But, oh! thou glorious, beautiful sea,
There is health, and joy, and delight in thee.
Solemnly, sweetly, I hear thy voice
Bidding me weep and yet rejoice:
Weep for the loved ones buried beneath,
Rejoice in Him who has conquered death;
Weep for the sorrowing, tempest-tossed,
Rejoice in Him who has saved the lost;
Weep for the sin and sorrow of strife,
Rejoice in the hope of eternal life!

THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC.

REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER.

[_Selection for Twelve Students._]

=January.= Darkness and light reign alike. Snow is on the ground, cold is in the air. The winter is blossoming in frost-flowers. Old sounds are silent in the forest and in the air. Insects are dead, birds are gone, leaves have perished. So hath God wiped out the past; so hath he spread the earth, like an unwritten page, for a new year.

=February.= As the month wears on its silent work begins, though storms rage. The earth is hidden yet, but not dead. The sun is drawing near. He whispers words of deliverance into the ears of every sleeping seed and root that lies beneath the snow. The day opens, but the night shuts the earth with its frost-lock; but day steadily gains upon the night.

=March.= The conflict is more turbulent, but the victory is gained. The world awakes. There come voices from long-hidden birds. The smell of the soil is in the air. The sullen ice, retreating from open field and all sunny places, has slunk to the north of every fence and rock. The knolls and banks that face the east or south sigh for release, and begin to lift up a thousand tiny palms.

=April.= The singing month. Many voices of many birds call for resurrection over the graves of flowers, and they come forth. Go, see what they have lost. What have ice, and snow, and storm done unto them? How did they fall into the earth, stripped and bare? How did they come forth, opening and glorified? Is it, then, so fearful a thing to lie in the grave? In its wild career, shaking and scourged of storms through its orbit, the earth has scattered away no treasures. The Hand that governs in April governed in January. You have not lost what God has only hidden. You lose nothing in struggle, in trial, in bitter distress.

=May.= O Flower-month! perfect the harvests of flowers. Be not niggardly. Search out the cold and resentful nooks that refused the sun, casting back its rays from disdainful ice, and plant flowers even there. There is goodness in the worst. There is warmth in the coldest. The silent, hopeful, unbreathing sun, that will not fret or despond, but carries a placid brow through the unwrinkled heavens, at length conquers the very rocks, and lichens grow and inconspicuously blossom. What shall not Time do, that carries in its bosom Love?

=June.= Rest! This is the year’s bower. Sit down within it. The winds bring perfume, the forests sing to thee, the earth shows thee all her treasures. The air is all sweetness. The storms are but as flocks of mighty birds that spread their wings and sing in the high heaven. The earth cries to the heavens, “God is here!” The heavens cry to the earth, “God is here!” The land claims him, and his footsteps are upon the sea. O sunny joys of sunny June, how soon will you be scorched by the eager months coming burning from the equator!

=July.= Rouse up! The temperate heats that filled the air are raging forward to glow and overfill the earth. There are deep and unreached places for whose sake the probing sun pierces down its glowing hands. The earth shall drink of the heat before she knows her nature or her strength. Then shall she bring forth to the uttermost the treasures of her bosom. For there are things hidden far down, and the deep things of life are not known till the fire reveals them.

=August.= Reign, thou Fire-month! Neither shalt thou destroy the earth which frosts and ice could not destroy. The vines droop, the trees stagger, but every night the dew pities them. This is the rejoicing month for joyful insects, the most populous and the happiest month. The air is resonant of insect orchestras, each one carrying his part in nature’s grand harmony. August, thou art the ripeness of the year, the glowing center of the great circle.

=September.= There are thoughts in thy heart of death. Thou art doing a secret work, and heaping up treasures for another year. The unborn infant-buds which thou art tending are more than all the living leaves. Thy robes are luxuriant, but worn with softened pride. More dear, less beautiful than June, thou art the heart’s month. Not till the heats of summer are gone, while all its growths remain, do we know the fullness of life. Thy hands are stretched out, and clasp the glowing palm of August, and the fruit-smelling hand of October. Thou dividest them asunder, and art thyself molded of them both.

=October.= Orchard of the year! Bend thy boughs to the earth, redolent of glowing fruit! Ripened seeds shake in their pods. Apples drop in the stillest hours. Leaves begin to let go when no wind is out, and swing in long waverings to the earth, which they touch without sound, and lie looking up, till winds rake them and heap them in fence-corners. When the gales come through the trees, the yellow leaves trail, like sparks at night behind the flying engine. The woods are thinner, so that we can see the heavens plainer, as we lie dreaming on the yet warm moss by the singing spring. The days are calm. The nights are tranquil. The year’s work is done. She walks in gorgeous apparel, looking upon her long labor, and her serene eye saith, “It is good.”

=November.= Patient watcher, thou art asking to lay down thy tasks. Life to thee, now, is only a task accomplished. In the night-time thou liest down, and the messengers of winter deck thee with hoar-frosts for thy burial. The morning looks upon thy jewels, and they perish while it gazes. Wilt thou not come, O December?

=December.= Silently the month advances. There is nothing to destroy, but much to bury. Bury, then, thou snow, that slumberously fallest through the still air, the hedgerows of leaves! Muffle thy cold wool about the feet of shivering trees! Bury all that the year hath known, and let thy brilliant stars, that never shine as they do in thy frostiest nights, behold the work! But know, O month of destruction, that in thy constellation is set that Star whose rising is the sign, for evermore, that there is life in death! Thou art the month of resurrection. In thee the Christ came. Every star that looks down upon thy labor and toil of burial knows that all things shall come forth again. Storms shall sob themselves to sleep. Silence shall find a voice. Death shall live, Life shall rejoice, Winter shall break forth and blossom into Spring, Spring shall put on her glorious apparel and be called Summer. It is life! it is life! through the whole year!

TWO EPITAPHS.

[The following can be read by a class in concert, or by two sections of a class. It is a fine exercise in transition from soft to loud Force, slow to quick Time, low to high Pitch, minor to major Inflection.]

I.

“Think of Death!” the grave-stones say,—
“Peace to Life’s mad striving!”

II.

But the church-yard daisies,—“Nay,
Think of Living!”

“Think of Life!” the sunbeams say,
O’er the dial flying;

I.

But the slanting shadows,—“Nay,
Think of Dying!”

“Think of Death!” the night birds say,
On the storm-blast driving;

II.

But the building swallows,—“Nay,
Think of Living!”

“Think of Life!” the broad winds say,
Through the old trees sighing;

I.

But the whirling leaf-dance,—“Nay,
Think of Dying!”

“Think of Death!” the sad bells say,
Fateful record giving;

II.

Clash the merry Yule-peal,—“Nay,
Think of Living!”

_Concert._ Dying, Living, glad or loath,
On God’s Rood relying;
Pray He fit us all for both—
Living, Dying!

_From the German._

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

[_For Solo and Concert Recitation._]

[Variations in Force, Time, Pitch, Quality, Staccato and Legato effect, to be made according to the idea expressed by the different words.]

_Solo._

“How does the water come down at Lodore?”
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time,
And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon at the word
There first came one daughter,
And then came another
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water came down at Lodore,
So I told them in rhyme, for of rhymes I had store,
And ’twas in my vocation
For their recreation,
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate to them and the King.

_Solo._

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
Through moss and through brake
It runs and it creeps
For a while till it sleeps
In its own little lake;
It runs through the reeds and away it proceeds
Through meadow and glade, in sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter, among crags in its flurry
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry!
The cataract strong then plunges along,
Striking and raging as if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among.

_Concert._

Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,—

_Solo._

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

_Concert._

And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And moaning and groaning.
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering.
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and furling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and crashing—

_Solo._

And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending
All at once, and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

CAVALRY SONG.

EDMUND C. STEDMAN.

[_For Boys’ Recitation._]

I.

Our good steeds snuff the winter air,
Our pulses with their purpose tingle;
The foeman’s fires are twinkling there;
He leaps to hear our sabers jingle.

HALT!

Each carbine send its whizzing ball;
Now cling! clang! forward, all,
Into the fight!

II.

Dash on beneath the smoking dome;
Through level lightnings gallop nearer!
One look to Heaven. No thoughts of home;
The guidons that we bear are dearer.

CHARGE!

Cling! clang! forward, all!
Heaven help those whose horses fall!
Cut left and right!

III.

They flee before our fierce attack!
They fall! they spread in broken surges.
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back,
And leave the foeman to his dirges.

WHEEL!

The bugles sound the swift recall;
Cling! clang! backward, all!
Home, and good-night!

RECITATIONS FOR MUSIC.

THE ANGELUS.

FRANCES L. MACE.

[_For pianissimo musical accompaniment._]

Ring soft across the dying day,
Angelus!
Across the amber-tinted bay,
The meadow flushed with sunset ray,—
Ring out, and float, and melt away,
Angelus.

The day of toil seems long ago,
Angelus;
While through the deepening vesper glow,
Far up where holy lilies blow,
Thy beckoning bell-notes rise and flow,
Angelus.

Through dazzling curtains of the west,
Angelus!
We see a shrine in roses dressed,
And lifted high in vision blest,
Our very heart-throb is confessed,
Angelus.

Oh, has an angel touched the bell,
Angelus?
For now upon its parting swell
All sorrow seems to sing farewell,
There falls a peace no words can tell,
Angelus!

HOPE’S SONG.

HELEN M. WINSLOW.

The golden dreams of youth
Assume a guise of truth
Which age keeps never,
For Hope’s voice singeth ever,
“Oh, youth and strong endeavor,
Can win the highest good forever.”

Love’s subtle intuition
Divines life’s glad fruition,
Distrusting never;
And sweetly Hope sings ever,
“True love and sweet endeavor
Shall hold the highest good forever.”

Love’s sacred tryst is broken,
Heart-breaking words are spoken
Her bonds to sever;
But still Hope singeth ever,
“Brave heart and strong endeavor
Must find the highest good forever.”

Pale hands are crossed in death;
Gone is the quivering breath;
And still a low voice never
Stops echoing, echoing ever,
“Brave heart and strong endeavor
Have won the highest good forever.”

THE SUNRISE NEVER FAILED US YET.

MRS. CELIA THAXTER.

Upon the sadness of the sea
The sunset broods regretfully;
From the far, lonely spaces, slow
Withdraws the wistful after-glow.

So out of life the splendor dies;
So darken all the happy skies;
So gathers twilight, cold and stern—
But overhead the planets burn.

And up the east another day
Shall chase the bitter dark away;
What though our eyes with tears be wet?
The sunrise never failed us yet!

The blush of dawn may yet restore
Our light, and hope, and joy, once more.
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget
That sunrise never failed us yet!

A WINTER SONG.

[With light, running _staccato_ and _legato_ accompaniments.]

Oh, summer has the roses
And the laughing, light south wind,
And the merry meadows lined
With dewy, dancing posies;
But winter has the sprites
And the witching frosty nights.

Oh, summer has the splendor
Of the corn-fields wide and deep,
Where the scarlet poppies sleep
And wary shadows wander;
But winter fields are rare
With diamonds everywhere.

Oh, summer has the wild bees,
And the ringing, singing note
In the robin’s tuneful throat,
And the leaf-talk in the trees;
But winter has the chime
Of the merry Christmas time.

Oh, summer has the luster
Of the sunbeams warm and bright,
And rains that fall at night
Where reeds and lilies cluster;
But deep in winter’s snow
The fires of Christmas glow.

_St. Nicholas._

THE CONCERT REHEARSAL.

WOLSTAN DIXEY.

Oh, it was a musical old Beetle!
And oh, it was a honey-throated Bee!
But the dandified young Hopper,
He couldn’t sing it proper,
And the Cricket—out of tune was he.

They sung and they sung,
And the harebells swung
A tinkling _obligato_ in the breeze;
While the Beetle, singing-master,
Tried to make them sing it faster,
By patting off the _tempo_ on his knees.

And oh! it was a Robin overheard them,
Who happened out a-walking in the glade,
And he laughed in every feather
When they tried to sing together
At the funny little noises that they made.

He listened and he listened,
And his eyes they fairly glistened
As the Bee so sweetly bumbled out the air;
But the Cricket struck another,
And the Robin thought he’d smother
Trying not to let them know that he was there.

Then oh, the Bee declared that “It was shameful!”
And angrily sipped honey from a comb;
“She was ruining her throat
And wouldn’t sing another note
Until the others studied it at home!”

The Cricket said that he
Never _could_ keep in the key
When the wind was blowing that way from the south,
And young Hopper made excuses
In reply to these abuses,
That he had too much molasses in his mouth.

Then oh! the beetle-headed old conductor
Arose and made a few remarks in turn;
“The soprano is so vicious
And affairs so unpropitious,
The best thing we can do is to adjourn.

“Taking everything together,
The molasses and the weather,
And the fact that we can’t any of us sing,
There is quite sufficient reason
That we wait another season
And postpone our little concert till the spring!”

ROCK OF AGES.

[The quoted words can be either sung or recited. The melody should be played through once before the beginning of the recitation. The accompaniment, _pianissimo_, should run through the entire poem, being definite, and _piano_ only on the quoted lines.]

“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung,
Fell the words unconsciously
From her girlish, gleeful tongue;
Sang as little children sing;
Sang as sing the birds in June;
Fell the words like light leaves down
On the current of the tune—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Let me hide myself in Thee,”—
Felt her soul no need to hide;
Sweet the song as song could be,
And she had no thought beside.
All the words unheedingly
Fell from lips untouched by care,
Dreaming not that they might be
On some other lips a prayer—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
’Twas a woman sung them now,
Pleadingly and prayerfully;
Every word her heart did know.
Rose the song, as a storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wings the air;
Every note with sorrow stirred—
Every syllable a prayer—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
Lips grown aged sung the hymn
Trustingly and tenderly—
Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim.
“Let me hide myself in Thee,”
Trembling though the voice and low,
Rose the sweet strain peacefully
Like a river in its flow.
Sang as only they can sing
Who life’s thorny paths have passed;
Sang as only they can sing
Who behold the promised rest—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
Sung above a coffin-lid;
Underneath all restfully
All life’s joys and sorrows hid.
Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul,
Nevermore, from wind or tide,
Nevermore from billows’ roll
Wilt thou need thyself to hide.
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,
Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffened lips
Move again in pleading prayer—
Still, aye still, the words would be,
“Let me hide myself in Thee.”

POETS’ BIRTHDAYS.

THE BLESSING OF THE POETS.—I think it a very great boon which Heaven bestows on any nation when it sends a real poet among the people, like Longfellow or Whittier. I can’t understand why we take the gift so coldly. In some of the poems of Whittier you can almost hear the rustling of the leaves of the old family Bible, and in Longfellow’s lines you can listen to the rain on your roof, as you heard it while lying in your chamber in your childhood. It really seems to me that the whole poetic atmosphere of our time has been filled with a new fragrance by Whittier and Longfellow. They have taught us to prize afresh the loftiest virtues and the lowliest charities. Well may they indeed be called “Our Poets of the Household.” You may call them primary or secondary, if you choose; but their motive-power remains unquenchable and unchallengeable, and their words are graven in the hearts all over the human world.—JAMES T. FIELDS.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Born Nov. 3, 1794. Died June 12, 1878.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless
The heart,—its teachers and its joy,—
As mothers blend with their caress
Lessons of truth and gentleness
And virtue for the listening boy.
Spring’s lovelier flowers for many a day
Have blossomed on his wandering way;
Beings of beauty and decay,
They slumber in their autumn tomb;
But those that graced his own Green River
And wreathed the lattice of his home,
Charmed by his song from mortal doom,
Bloom on, and will bloom on forever.

* * * * *

Bryant had a wonderful memory. His familiarity with the English poets was such that when at sea, where he was always too ill to read much, he would beguile the time by reciting page after page from favorite poems. He assured me that however long the voyage, he had never exhausted his resources. He was scarcely less familiar with the languages and literatures of Germany, France and Spain, Greece and Rome. He spoke all living languages except the Greek with facility and correctness.—JOHN BIGELOW.

* * * * *

The name of Bryant cannot be mentioned by any friend to American letters without respect as well as admiration. The hold that he has on the profoundest feelings of his countrymen is to be referred to the genuineness, delicacy, depth, and purity of his sentiment. He is so genuine that he testifies to nothing in scenery or human life of which he has not had a direct personal consciousness. He follows the primitive bias of his nature rather than the caprices of fancy. His compositions always leave the impression of having been born, not manufactured or made.—EDWIN P. WHIPPLE.

* * * * *

It is the glory of this man that his character outshone even his great talent and his large fame. Distinguished equally for his native gifts and his consummate culture, his poetic inspiration and his exquisite art, he is honored and loved to-day even more for his stainless purity of life, his unswerving rectitude of will, his devotion to the higher interests of his race, his unfeigned patriotism, and his broad humanity.—REV. HENRY W. BELLOWS.

* * * * *

When Cooper died, the restless city paused to hear Bryant’s words of praise and friendship. When Irving followed Cooper, all hearts turned to Bryant. Now Bryant has followed Cooper and Irving, the last of that early triumvirate of American literature. The broad and simple outline of his character and career had become universally familiar like a mountain or the sea. A patriarch of our literature, the oldest of our poets, he felt the magic of human sympathy, the impulse of his country, the political genius of his race, and was a public political leader.—GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

A BRYANT ALPHABET.

Alike, beneath thine eye,
The deeds of darkness and of light are done;
High towards the star-lit sky
Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun.

_Hymn to the North Star._

Beneath the forest’s skirt I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the thread-like foliage sigh.

_The West Wind._

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence
Came the deep murmur of its throng of men;
And as its grateful odors met thy sense,
They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.

_To a Mosquito._

Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air;
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Of the chariot of God, in the thunder-cloud!

_The Hurricane._

Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared
The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet,
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits.

_The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus._

Far back in the ages,
The plow with wreaths was crowned;
The hands of kings and sages
Entwined the chaplet round.

_Ode for an Agricultural Celebration._

Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
To weave the dance that measures the years;
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent
To the furthest wall of the firmament.

_Song of the Stars._

Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock
Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock;
While those who seek to slay thy children, hold
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold.

_Hymn of the Waldenses._

I know where the timid fawn abides
In the depths of the shaded dell,
Where the leaves are broad, and the thicket hides
From the eye of the hunter well.

_An Indian Story._

Journeying, in long serenity, away
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee!

_October._

Knit they the gentle ties which long
These Sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong
For idle hands in sport to tear?

_Not Yet._

Lament who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly;
I sigh not over vanished years,
But watch the years that hasten by.

_The Lapse of Time._

Might but a little part,
A wandering breath, of that high melody
Descend into my heart,
And change it till it be
Transformed and swallowed up, O love, in thee!

_The Life of the Blessed._

Not from the sands or cloven rocks,
Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;
Nor earth, within her bosom, locks
Thy dark unfathomed wells below.

_To the River Arve._

Oh, deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.

“_Blessed are they that Mourn._”

Peace to the just man’s memory; let it grow
Greener with years, and blossom through the flight
Of ages.

_The Ages._

——the great deep
Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air
Above a furnace.

_Sella._

Raise, then, the hymn to Death. Deliverer!
God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed
And crush the oppressor.

_Hymn to Death._

Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

_To a Waterfall._

Thou unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain
And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

_The Past._

Upon the mountain’s distant head
With trackless snows forever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
Late shines the day’s departing light.

“_Upon the Mountain’s Distant Head._”

Violets spring in the soft May shower;
There, in the summer breezes, wave
Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.

_The Maiden’s Sorrow._

Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers
Offered where crowds in reverent worship come
Or softly breathed amid the tender cares
And loving inmates of thy quiet home.

_The Life that Is._

Alexis calls me cruel;
The rifted crags that hold
The gathered ice of winter,
He says, are not more cold.

_Song from the Spanish._

Yet these sweet sounds of the early season
And these fair sights of its sunny days,
Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.

_An Invitation to the Country._

Leave Zelinda altogether,
Whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest
Forget whom thou dost wrong.

_The Alcayde of Molina._

THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER.

On my cornice linger the ripe, black grapes ungathered;
Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee,
Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them
Drop the heavy fruit of the tall black walnut tree.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson,
Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green,
Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing
With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.

Like this kindly season may life’s decline come o’er me;
Past is manhood’s summer, the frosty months are here;
Yet be genial airs, and a pleasant sunshine left me,
Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year.

THE NIGHT JOURNEY OF A RIVER.

O darkling River! Through the night I hear
Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach;
I hear thy current stir the rustling sedge
That skirts thy bed; thou intermittest not
Thine everlasting journey, drawing on
A silvery train from many a woodland spring
And mountain brook. The dweller by thy side,
Who moored his little boat upon thy beach,
Though all the waters that upbore it then
Have slid away o’er night, shall find, at noon
Thy channels filled with waters freshly drawn
From distant cliffs and hollows, where the rill
Comes up amid the water-flags. All night
Thou givest moisture to the thirsty roots
Of the lithe willow and overhanging plane,
And cherishest the herbage of thy bank,
Spotted with little flowers, and sendeth up
Perpetually the vapors from thy face,
To steep the hills with dew, or darken heaven
With drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower.

THE HURRICANE.

Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh,
I know thy breath in the burning sky!
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,
For the coming of the hurricane!
And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales,
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails.
Silent and slow, and terribly strong,
The mighty shadow is borne along,
Like the dark eternity to come;
While the world below, dismayed and dumb,
Through the calm of the thick, hot atmosphere
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

* * * * *

He is come! he is come! Do ye not behold
His ample robes on the wind unrolled?
Giant of air! we bid thee hail!—
How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale!
How his huge and writhing arms are bent
To clasp the zone of the firmament,
And fold, at length, in their dark embrace,
From mountain to mountain the visible space!

Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air;
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud!
You may trace its path by the flashes that start
From the rapid wheels where’er they dart,
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below,
And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

GREEN RIVER.

Yet pure its waters—its shallows are bright
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light,
And clear the depth where its eddies play,
And dimples deepen and whirl away,
And the plane-tree’s speckled arms o’ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root,
Through whose shifting waves as you walk the hill,
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill
With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,
Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone!
Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,
With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees’ hum;
The flowers of summer are fairest there,
And freshest the breath of the summer air;
And sweetest the golden autumn day
In silence and sunshine glides away.

THE VIOLET.

When birchen buds begin to swell,
And woods the bluebirds’ warble know,
The little violet’s modest bell
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.

Oft in the sunless April day
Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they who climb to wealth forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried;
I copied them, but I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Born May 25, 1803. Died April 27, 1882.

EMERSON.

MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

Dear Nature’s child, he nestled close to her!
She to his heart had whispered deeper things
Than science from the wells of learning brings.
His still small voice the human soul could stir,
For Nature made him her interpreter.
And gave her favorite son far-reaching wings;
He soared and sang as Heaven’s lark only sings,
Devout in praise, Truth’s truest worshiper.
With eyes anointed, in his upward flight
He quick discerned what was divine in men,
Reading the humblest spirit’s tongue aright.
O Prophet, Poet, Leader! in thy light
How many saw beyond their natural ken,
Who follow now the star that led thee then!

* * * * *

Emerson’s writings call for thought in the reader. They demand that one should stop and ask questions, should translate what one has read into one’s own ordinary speech, and inquire again if it is true. No one should read Emerson who is not willing to have his own weakness disclosed to him, and who is not prepared also to test what he finds by a standard which is above both writer and reader.—HORACE E. SCUDDER.

* * * * *

There are living organisms so transparent that we can see their hearts beating and their blood flowing through their glassy tissues. So transparent was the life of Emerson; so clearly did the true nature of the man show through it. What he taught others to be he was himself. His deep and sweet humanity won him love and reverence everywhere among those whose natures were capable of responding to the highest manifestations of character.—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

* * * * *

Though Emerson had reached a great age, we were not ready to part with him. He was an important friend, companion, kinsman, fellow-citizen, to the last; a wayfarer everybody was glad to meet; one whose enemy none could continue to be; a charmer whose spell was not to be escaped. With his imagination for an eye, Emerson was a perceiver, and he respected perception in himself and others, being as quick and glad to quote their perceptions as to announce his own. He notes, cites, and lauds every scrap of insight, or ripple of tidings over the ocean that heaves from the unknown shore towards which he sails.—REV. C. A. BARTOL.

* * * * *

Emerson’s faith in America is justified whether we trust in the capacities of the individual soul, or whether our expectation grows from the promises of a new civilization. America brings together the races of the world as no nation or time ever did before, and Emerson’s hope for America may yet be justified by a literature in harmony with the new time.—GEORGE WILLIS COOKE.

* * * * *

Long, long had we heard in India of his name and reputation. We wondered what manner of man he was. When at last I landed on your continent, how glad I should have been to sit at his feet and unfold before him the tale of our woe and degradation! But he had gone to his rest, and instead of touching his warm hand which had blessed so many pilgrims, I could but kiss the cold dust of his nameless grave at the Concord cemetery.—PROTAP CHUNDER MOZOOMDAR.

AN EMERSON ALPHABET.

All right activity is amiable. I never feel that any man occupies my
place, but that the reason why I do not have what I wish is, that I
want the faculty which entitles. All spiritual or real power makes
its own place.—_Aristocracy._

By right or wrong,
Lands and goods go to the strong,
Property will brutely draw
Still to the proprietor;
Silver to silver creep and wind,
And kind to kind.

_The Celestial Love._

Come see the northwind’s masonry:
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof.

_The Snow-storm._

Do not spare to put novels into the hands of young people as an
occasional holiday and experiment; but, above all, good poetry in all
kinds, epic, tragedy, lyric.—_Education._

Europe has always owed to Oriental genius its divine impulses.
What those holy bards said, all sane men found agreeable and
true.—_Address to Divinity Students._

For Nature ever faithful is
To such as trust her faithfulness.

_Woodnotes._

Gentle pilgrim, if thou know
The gamut old of Pan,
And how the hills began,
The frank blessings of the hill
Fall on thee, as fall they will.

_Monadnoc._

He is great who confers the most benefits. He is base—and that is
the one base thing in the universe—to receive favors and render
none.—_Compensation._

Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion;
Sailor of the atmosphere,
Swimmer through the waves of air.

_The Humble-bee._

Jesus astonishes and overpowers sensual people. They cannot unite Him
to history, or reconcile Him with themselves.—_History._

Knowest thou that wove yon wood-bird’s nest
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast?
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,
Painting with morn each annual shell?

_The Problem._

Let a man control the habit of expense. Let him see that as much
wisdom may be expended on a private economy as on an empire, and as
much wisdom be drawn from it.—_Prudence._

Man was made of solid earth,
Child and brother from his birth;
Tethered by a liquid cord
Of blood through veins of kindred poured.

_The Celestial Love._

No man can learn what he has not preparation for learning, however
near to his eyes is the object. A chemist may tell his most precious
secrets to a carpenter, and he shall never be the wiser.—_Spiritual
Laws._

One harvest from thy field
Homeward brought the oxen strong;
A second crop thine acres yield
Which I gather in a song.

_The Apology._

People say sometimes, “See what I have overcome; see how cheerful I
am; see how completely I have triumphed over these black events.” Not
if they still remind me of the black event.—_Circles._

Queen of things! I dare not die
In Being’s deeps past ear and eye;
Lest there I find the same deceiver
And be the sport of Fate forever.

_Ode to Beauty._

River and rose and crag and bird,
Frost and sun and eldest night,
To me their aid preferred,
To me their comfort plight.

_Hermione._

Spartans, stoics, heroes, saints, and gods use a short and positive
speech. They are never off their centers. As soon as they swell and
paint and find truth not enough for them, softening of the brain has
already begun.—_The Superlative._

Teach me your mood, O patient stars!
Who climb each night the ancient sky,
Leaving on space no shade, no scars,
No trace of age, no fear to die.

_The Poet._

Upborne and surrounded as we are by this all-creating nature, soft
and fluid as a cloud or the air, why should we be such hard pedants
and magnify a few forms?—_History._

Virtue runs before the Muse,
And defies her skill;
She is rapt, and doth refuse
To wait a painters will.

_Loss and Gain._

Wise, cultivated, genial conversation is the last flower of
civilization, and the best result which life has to offer us,—a cup
for gods, which has no repentance. Conversation is our account of
ourselves.—_Woman._

EXTRACT FROM “COMPENSATION.”

The history of persecution is a history of endeavors to cheat nature, to make water run up-hill, to twist a rope of sand. It makes no difference whether the actors be many or one, a tyrant or a mob. The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of flame; every prison, a more illustrious abode; every burned book or house enlightens the world; every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through the earth from side to side. Hours of sanity and consideration are always arriving to communities as to individuals, when the truth is seen, and the martyrs are justified.

THE CONCORD FIGHT.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled.
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe has long in silence slept:
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone,
That memory may their deed redeem,
When like our sires our sons are gone.

EXTRACT FROM “WORKS AND DAYS.”

’Tis a fine fable for the advantage of character over talent, the Greek legend of the strife of Jove and Phœbus. Phœbus challenged the gods and said, “Who will outshoot the far-darting Apollo?” Zeus said, “I will.” Mars shook the lots in his helmet, and that of Apollo leaped out first. Apollo stretched his bow and shot his arrow into the extreme west. Then Zeus arose, and with one stride cleared the whole distance, and said, “Where shall I shoot? There is no space left.” So the bowman’s prize was adjudged to him who drew no bow.

ART.

Give to barrows, trays, and pans
Grace and glimmer of romance;
Bring the moonlight into noon
Hid in gleaming piles of stone;
On the city’s pavèd street
Plant gardens lined with lilac sweet,
Let spouting fountains cool the air,
Singing in the sun-baked square;
Let statue, picture, park, and hall,
Ballad, flag, and festival,
The past restore, the day adorn,
And make each morrow a new morn.
’Tis the privilege of Art
Thus to play its cheerful part.

THE RHODORA.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing
Then beauty is its own excuse for being.

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew,
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same Power that brought me here, brought you.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Born Aug. 29, 1809.

OUR AUTOCRAT.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

His laurels fresh from song and lay,
Romance and art, so young withal
At heart, we scarcely dare to say
We keep his seventieth festival.

His still the keen analysis
Of men and moods, electric wit,
Free play of mirth, and tenderness
To heal the slightest wound from it.

And his the pathos touching all
Life’s sins and sorrows and regrets,
Its hopes and fears, its final call
And rest beneath the violets.

His sparkling surface scarce betrays
The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled;
The wisdom of the latter days
And tender memories of the old.

Though now unnumbered guests surround
The table that he rules at will,
Its autocrat, however crowned,
Is but our friend and comrade still.

Long may he live to sing for us
The songs that stay the flight of time,
And like his Chambered Nautilus,
To holier heights of beauty climb.

Dec. 3, 1879.

* * * * *

I think that none of us can understand the meaning and scope of Dr. Holmes’s writings unless we have observed that the main work of his life has been to study and teach an exact science, the noble science of anatomy. And let us honor him to-day, not forgetting, as they can never be forgotten, his poems, his essays, as a noble representative of the profession of the scientific student and teacher.—CHARLES W. ELIOT.

* * * * *

What one does easily is apt to be his forte, though years may pass before he finds this out. Holmes’s early pieces, mostly college-verse, were better of their kind than those of a better kind written in youth by some of his contemporaries. The humbler the type, the sooner the development. The young poet had the aid of a suitable habitat; life at Harvard was the precise thing to bring out his talent. There was nothing of the hermit-thrush in him; his temper was not of the withdrawing and reflective kind, nor moodily introspective,—it throve on fellowship, and he looked to his mates for an audience as readily as they to him for a toast-master.—FRANCES H. UNDERWOOD.

* * * * *

One finds nowhere in Holmes’s volumes crude and unformed thoughts. He writes as clearly as he thinks. His sentences come from his pen clean-cut. The language of his prose is pure classical English. His style is simple, direct, forcible; affluent, in the sense that it apparently never fails to come spontaneously at need, and in the fittest form; but not exuberant to the obscuring of the thought. Whether he be discussing a medical thesis or reading a lyric to classmates and literary friends at an anniversary dinner, or sketching character in the romance, or playing the autocrat at the breakfast-table, it is sure to be found acting effectively on those who hear or read them.—REV. RAY PALMER.

* * * * *

It is as a writer of humorous poetry that Holmes excels. His non-humorous poems are full of beautiful passages, as we shall see, but they have not the same unique flavor of originality. In one of the great London papers it was editorially stated, not long since, that no contemporary American writer had so amused and instructed the insular mind as Holmes had done. The one most charming feature of his printed and spoken conversation is that he establishes a relation of sympathy between himself and his listeners, by expressing for them those common, every-day thoughts that we all think but rarely say.—WM. SLOANE KENNEDY.

* * * * *

The grace and gayety, the pathos and melody, the wit, the earnestness and shrewd sense of his writings, have given Holmes a place, and a sunny place, in the popular heart. On his happy birthday it was not Boston that sat at table, but the whole country. It was not a town meeting, but a national congress. The Autocrat is not a mayor, but an emperor, and the toast of the day was the toast of appreciative hearts and generous souls far beyond the sound of the Atlantic. “The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table; O king, live forever!”—GEO. WM. CURTIS.

A HOLMES ALPHABET.

Along its front no sabers shine,
No blood-red pennons wave;
Its banner bears the single line,
“Our duty is to save.”

_The Two Armies._

Bring bellows for the panting winds,
Hang up a lantern by the moon;
And give the nightingale a fife,
And lend the eagle a balloon.

_The Meeting of the Dryads._

Child of the plowshare, smile;
Boy of the counter, grieve not,
Though muses round thy trundle-bed
Their broidered tissue weave not.

_The Poet’s Lot._

Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the while
With your lips double-reefed in a snug little smile,
I leave you two fables, both drawn from the deep,—
The shells you can drop, but the pearls you may keep.

_Verses for After-dinner._

Each moment fainter wave the fields
And wider rolls the sea;
The mist grows dark,—the sun goes down,—
Day breaks,—and where are we?

_Departed Days._

Flowers will bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer
fields, to the end of time, always old and always new. Why
should we be more shy of repeating ourselves than the spring be
tired of blossoms or the night of stars?—_The Autocrat of the
Breakfast-table._

God of all nations! Sovereign Lord!
In Thy dread name we draw the sword,
We lift the starry flag on high
That fills with light our stormy sky.

_Army Hymn._

How patient Nature smiles at Fame!
The weeds that strewed the victor’s way,
Feed on his dust to shroud his name,
Green where his proudest towers decay.

_A Roman Aqueduct._

It is likely that the language will shape itself by larger forces
than phonography and dictionary-making. You may spade up the ocean
as much as you like, and harrow it afterward if you can, but the
moon will still lead the tides, and the winds will form their
surface.—_The Professor at the Breakfast-table._

Joy smiles in the fountain,
Health flows in the rills,
As their ribbons of silver
Unwind from the hills.

_Song for a Temperance Dinner._

Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.
Born there? Don’t say so! I was too.

_Parson Turrell’s Legacy._

Let each unhallowed cause that brings
The stern destroyer cease,
Thy flaming angel fold his wings
And seraphs whisper Peace!

_Parting Hymn._

Many ideas grow better when transplanted into another mind than
in the one where they sprang up. That which was a weed in one
intelligence becomes a flower in the other. A flower, on the other
hand, may dwindle down to a mere weed by the same change.—_The Poet
at the Breakfast-table._

None wept,—none pitied;—they who knelt
At morning by the despot’s throne
At evening dashed the laureled bust
And spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn.

_The Dying Seneca._

Over the hill-sides the wild knell is tolling,
From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;
As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,
Circles the beat of the mustering drum.

_Lexington._

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance
Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time,
And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread
Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime.

_To a Caged Lion._

Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her?
What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her?
Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor.

_Iris, Her Book._

Rain me sweet odors on the air
And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise
Flat out before my sleepy eyes.

_Midsummer._

Scenes of my youth! awake, its slumbering fire!
Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre!
Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear,
Break through the clouds of Fancy’s waning year.

_A Metrical Essay._

Trees as we see them, love them, adore them in the fields, where they
are alive, holding their green sunshades over our heads, talking
to us with their hundred thousand whispering tongues, looking down
on us with that sweet meekness which belongs to huge but limited
organisms.—_The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table._

Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street
Whose narrow gaps afford
A pathway for her bleeding feet,
To seek her absent lord.

_Agnes._

Virtue—the guide that men and nations own;
And Law—the bulwark that protects her throne;
And Health—to all its happiest charm that lends,—
These and their servants, man’s untiring friends.

_A Modest Request._

Wan-visaged thing! thy virgin leaf
To me looks more than deadly pale,
Unknowing what may stain thee yet,—
A poem or a tale.

_To a Blank Sheet of Paper._

“It ain’t jest the thing to grease your ex with ile o’ vitrul,” said
the Member.—_The Poet at the Breakfast-table._

Ye know not,—but the hour is nigh;
Ye will not heed the warning breath;
No vision strikes your clouded eye,
To break the sleep that wakes in death.

_The Last Prophecy of Cassandra._

“By Zhorzhe!” as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,
You tell me they’re dead, but I know it’s a lie;
Is Jackson not President? What was’t you said?
It can’t be; you’re joking; what,—all of ’em dead?

_Once More._

UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE.

April 27, 1861.

Eighty years have passed, and more,
Since under the brave old tree
Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore
They would follow the sign their banners bore,
And fight till the land was free.

Half of their work was done,
Half is left to do,—
Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!
When the battle is fought and won,
What shall be told of you?