And swift an arrow cleaved its way To the Eagle.—PERCIVAL. From the Atlantic Souvenir for 1827. BIRD of the broad and sweeping wing, Where wide the storms their banners fling, Thou sittest like a thing of light, The midway sun is clear and bright; Thy pinions, to the rushing blast, O'er the bursting billow, spread, Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, Like an angel of the dead. Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag, And the waves are white below, And on, with a haste that cannot lag, They rush in an endless flow. Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight To lands beyond the sea, And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves, * Alluding to an Indian superstition. When the night storm gathers dim and dark, Thou rushest by the foundering bark, Quick as a passing dream. Lord of the boundless realm of air, The hearts of the bold and ardent dare Beneath the shade of thy golden wings, From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs, For thee they fought, for thee they fell, Thou wert, through an age of death and fears, Till the gathered rage of a thousand years And then a deluge of wrath it came, And the nations shook with dread; And it swept the earth till its fields were flame, Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood, And where was then thy fearless flight? To the lands that caught the setting light, There, on the silent and lonely shore, For ages, I watched alone, And the world, in its darkness, asked no more Where the glorious hird had flown. But then came a bold and hardy few, I caught afar the wandering crew; I wheeled around the welcome bark, And now that bold and hardy few And danger and doubt I have led them through, And over their bright and glancing arms, On field, and lake, and sea, With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms, I guide them to victory." Salmon River.*-BRAINAard. Tis a sweet stream; and so, 'tis true, are all Pursue their way By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood, But yet there's something in its humble rank, There's much in its wild history, that teems Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain; The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain ; And many a quiver, Filled from the reeds that grew cn yonder hill, *This river enters into the Connecticut at East Haddam. Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still, Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made Here Philip came, and Miantonimo, And asked about their fortunes long ago, As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show And here the black fox roved, that howled and shook Where they pursued their game, and him mistook Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, And his soft peltry, stripped and dressed, to wear, Transfer him to a box. Such are the tales they tell. 'Tis hard to rhyme That few have heard of; but it is a theme And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, To the Evening Wind.-BRYANT." SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou *The Talisman has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of its publication; but this, we had almost said it is the sweetest thing in the language. Not in any one of the Souvenirs, either English or American, has there ever appeared a page of such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has all the characteristics of Bryant's style-his chaste elegance, both in thought and expression,-ornament enough, but not in profusion or disPlay, imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiarsoothing, select and melodious language,-harmony in the flow of the stanza,-gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy.-ED. Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round 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 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And softly part his curtains to allow Go-but the circle of eternal change, That is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, |