Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the grey old trunks that high in heaven Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn—thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in His ear." Then, however, comes the supererogation we so often have complained of: Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Communion with his Maker." All this was surely implied in the foregoing, and had already passed through the reader's mind. In the later poems we do not see much advance on his earlier effusions. The same calm spirit looking on men, not as one of them fighting in the throng of battle, giving and receiving blows, but on an eminence, where, above the smoke of the conflict and the tumult of the conflict, he can see as a spectator: removed from the turmoil, he can draw his conclusions. In his verses "To the Apennines," he combines the ideal of paradise with the locale of Peru. "Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! In the soft light of these serenest skies; From the broad highland region, black with pines, Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, In rosy flushes on the virgin gold." This is another proof how much some poets feel with the brain. Reflection here has yoked the dissimilar. We must confess that we had hoped for a more personal, humanizing conclusion, than the frigid summing up of— "In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeks Her image; there the winds no barrier know, While even the immaterial Mind, below, And Thought, her winged offspring, chained by power, Mr. Bryant very seldom originates his subject; he generally selects some well-known fact, and after amplifying it, he then closes his poem by drawing a moral. That there is a moral in everything we need no instructor to assure us; but as this propensity to point it out seems part of our poet's nature, we must not blame him for it. We may, however, be permitted to express our opinion, that it very greatly interferes with his immortality as a master of song. In his "Death of Schiller," we have his method of teaching by verse very fairly set down. ""Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, The wish possessed his mighty mind To wander forth wherever lie The homes and haunts of human-kind. "Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves; "Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, The peering Chinese, and the dark False Malay uttering gentle words. "How could he rest? even then he trod Already, from the seat of God, A ray upon his garments shone; "Shone and awoke the strong desire, For love and knowledge reached not here, Till, freed by death, his soul of fire Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere. 66 "Then-who shall tell how deep, how bright How thought and feeling flowed like light, Through ranks of being without bound?" In his lines to the memory of William Leggett, we have a verse which gives a felicitous acconnt of the manner in which impulsive poetry should be written. And his "The words of fire that from his pen power and broad relief. of personification at times comes out in bold "Oh FREEDOM! thou art not, as poets dream, With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies." In the piece entitled "Seventy-Six" there is a force of diction which rings out loud and clear. "What heroes from the woodland sprung, The thrilling cry of freedom rung, And to the work of warfare strung The yeoman's iron hand. "Hills flung the cry to hills around, And ocean-mart replied to mart, And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, Into the forest's heart. "Then marched the brave from rocky steep, From mountain river swift and cold; The borders of the stormy deep, The vales where gathered waters sleep, As if the very earth again Grew quick with God's creating breath, To battle to the death. "The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, The fair fond bride of yestereve, And aged sire and matron grey, |