JOHN HOWARD BRYANT. The air was fresh and soft and sweet; The slopes in Spring's new verdure lay, And, wet with dew-drops, at my feet Bloomed the young violets of May. No sound of busy life was heard Amid those pastures lone and still, Save the faint chirp of early bird, Or bleat of flocks along the hill. I traced that rivulet's winding way; "Ah! happy valley-stream," I said, "Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers, Whose fragrance round thy path is shed Through all the joyous summer hours. "Oh! could my years like thine be passed But what new echoes greet my ear? I looked the widening vale betrayed Ah! why should I (I thought with shame) Sigh for a life of solitude, When even this stream without a name Is laboring for the common good? No, never let me shun my part Amid the busy scenes of life, But, with a warm and generous heart, Press onward in the glorious strife. THE LITTLE CLOUD. As when, on Carmel's sterile steep, There came at last a little cloud Scarce broader than the human hand, Spreading and swelling, till it broke In showers on all the herbless land, And hearts were glad, and shouts went up, Even so our eyes have waited long; But now a little cloud appears, Spreading and swelling as it glides, Onward into the coming years! Bright cloud of Liberty! full soon, Far stretching from the ocean strand, Thy glorious folds shall spread abroad, Encircling our beloved land. Like the sweet rain on Judah's hills The glorious boon of love shall fall, And our broad millions shall arise As at au angel's trumpet-call. Then shall a shout of joy go up, 627 The wild, glad cry of freedom come From hearts long crushed by cruel hands, And songs from lips long sealed and dumb, And every bondman's chain be broke, SONNET. 'Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me far The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good. James Otis Rockwell. AMERICAN. Rockwell (1807-1831) was a native of Lebanon, Conn. At an early age he was apprenticed to a printer in Utica, N. Y., and began, while yet a boy, to write for the newspapers. Afterward he labored as a journeyman compositor in Boston till he became an assistant editor of the Statesman. He was connected with the Patriot of Providence, R. I., at the time of his death. Some pathetic lines to his memory were written by Whittier, That thine eye is quickly shaded, That thy heart-blood wildly flows, That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, Are the fruits of these new woes. Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring Linger on your mother's face,— Know ye that she is expiring, That ye are an orphan race? God be with you on the morrow, Father, mother-both no more; One within a grave of sorrow, One upon the ocean's floor! THE LOST AT SEA. Wife, who in thy deep devotion Hope no more-his course is done. Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, Laugh amid the sorrowing rains, Know ye many clouds are throwing Shadows on your sire's remains? Where the hoarse, gray surge is rolling With a mountain's motion on, Dream ye that its voice is tolling For your father lost and gone? When the sun looked on the water, Where the giant current rolled, Slept thy sire, without emotion, Sweetly by a beam of gold. And the silent sunbeams slanted, Wavering through the crystal deep, Till their wonted splendors haunted Those shut eyelids in their sleep. Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming, Sparkled through his raven hair; But the sleep that knows no dreaming Bound him in its silence there. So we left him; and to tell thee Of our sorrow and thine own, Of the woe that then befell thee, Come we weary and alone. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. AMERICAN. Longfellow was born in Portland, Me., Feb. 27th, 1807. He was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825, in the same class with Hawthorne; was appointed Professor of Modern Languages in 1826; then passed four years in Europe, and on his return commenced the duties of his chair. His "Outre-Mer," containing his notes of travel, appeared in 1835. The same year he succeeded George Ticknor in the chair of belles-lettres at Harvard, when he again visited Europe. He gave up his professorship in 1854, and devoted himself exclusively to literature. His "Voices of the Night" appeared in 1839, and secured for him a high rank among the poets of the age. His prose romance of "Hyperion" appeared the same year. It was followed by "Ballads, and other Poems," in 1841; "Poems on Slavery," in 1842; "The Spanish Student," a play, in 1843; "Poets and Poetry of Europe," in 1845; "The Belfry of Bruges," in 1845; "Evangeline," in 1847; "Kavanagh," a novel, in 1849; "Seaside and Fireside," in 1849; "The Golden Legend," in 1851; "The Song of Hiawatha," in 1855; "The Courtship of Miles Standish," in 1858; "Tales of a Wayside Inn," in 1863; "Flower de Luce," in 1866; a translation of "The Divine Comedy of Dante," in 1867; "The New England Tragedies," in 1868; "The Divine Tragedy," in 1871; "Three Books of Song," in 1872; "Keramos, and other Poems," in 1878; besides many minor productions that have appeared in leading American magazines. Unlike some poets of the most recent school in verse, Longfellow rarely tries to convey an idea which is not clear and intelligible to his own mind. He is as honest as Shakspeare, Milton, or Burns in this respect. The notion that the poet must suggest more than he expresses is a just one; but it has led some writers to take it for granted that suggestiveness lies in obscurity rather than in such a clearly defined expression as this: "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." Here we have the utmost paucity of words, and yet the thought is level to the ordinary understanding. The obscure may sometimes excite a lively imagination so as to produce a poetical effect; but surely the highest order of poetry is that which gives more than it requires for its HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. solution. The obscure writer is often a contriver of riddles which may be interpreted in different ways by dif ferent minds. The true, the lasting poetry, is that which, while it goes to the general heart, does not involve too much of a strain of the thinking faculty. It is in his shorter lyrical pieces, his ballads, and his fine descriptive touches that Longfellow's powers are brought out to most advantage; for it is in these that he oftenest combines the neatness and skill of the consummate artist with the curious felicity and perfect simplicity of the genuine poet. His "Building of the Ship," "Rain in Summer," "Sea-weed," "The Fire of Drift-wood,' "Revenge of Rain-in-the-face," "Paul Revere's Ride," and many other pieces, have in them, on this account, the elements of an enduring popularity. Several of his sonnets are among the choicest in the language. For some forty-five years he has been almost continuously productive, either as author, compiler, or translator; and his latest poems have shown an increase rather than a diminution of power. Few poets have lived to reap such a harvest of contemporary fame, united to admiration and esteem for personal qualities and an unblemished life, such as the history of the "irritable race" too rarely exhibits. Longfellow has been twice married; and in his second marriage was blessed with that experience of paternity which finds beautiful expression in some of his verses. An elegant quarto edition of his poems, finely illustrated, appeared in Boston in 1880. KILLED AT THE FORD. He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tougue of truth- The cheer of whose laugh and whose pleasant word Only last night, as we rode along He was humming the words of some old song: "Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of his sword.” Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of the wood, and the voice was still: We lifted him up on his saddle again, Carried him back to the silent camp, And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 629 And a bell was tolled in that far-off town, THE LAUNCH. FROM THE BUILDING of the Ship." Then the master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, She starts, she moves,-she seems to feel And lo! from the assembled crowd How beautiful she is! how fair Through wind and wave right onward steer! Sail forth into the sea of life, Oh, gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! THE ARROW AND THE SONG. I shot an arrow into the air, I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke, And the song from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE. In that desolate land and lone, |