A TREASURY OF AMERICAN VERSE. THE ARROW AND THE SONG. I SHOT an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where: I breathed a song into the air, Long, long afterward, in an oak, HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. THE SONNET. WHAT is a sonnet? 'Tis the pearly shell That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea; A two-edged sword, a star, a song-ah me! This was the flame that shook with Dante's breath; The solemn organ whereon Milton played, And the clear glass where Shakespeare's shadow falls; A sea this is-beware who ventureth! For like a fjord the narrow floor is laid Mid-ocean deep to the sheer mountain walls. RICHARD WATSON GILDER. AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Press'd round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own. And, when he read, they forward leaned, His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned From humble smiles and tears. Slowly there grew a tender awe, It was a sight for sin and wrong A sight to make our faith more pure and strong I thought, these men will carry hence God scatters love on every side, There is no wind but soweth seeds Which burst, unlook'd-for, into high-soul'd deeds With wayside beauty rife. We find within these souls of ours Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers Whose fragrance fills the earth. Within the hearts of all men lie These promises of wider bliss, All that hath been majestical In life or death, since time began, Is native in the simple heart of all, The angel heart of man. And thus, among the untaught poor, Great deeds and feelings find a home, That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of classic Greece and Rome. O mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity! All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole : In his broad breast the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue, Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong. All thought begins in feeling,-wide In the great mass its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid. Nor is he far astray who deems That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by order'd impulse streams From the great heart of God. God wills, man hopes: in common souls Never did Poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear To the lives of coarsest men. It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century;— But better far it is to speak One simple word, which now and then To write some earnest verse or line, |