Beings shall welcome, serve thee; lovely as angels ;
The elemental powers shall stoop, the sea
Disclose her wonders, and receive thy feet
Into her sapphire chambers; orbéd clouds
Shall chariot thee from zone to zone, while earth,
A dwindled islet, floats beneath thee. Every
Season and clime shall blend for thee the garland.
The abyss of time shall cast its secrets, ere
The flood marred primal nature, ere this orb
Stood in her station. Thou shalt know the stars,
The houses of eternity, their names,

Their courses, destiny — all marvels high.
Tam. Talk not so madly.

JOHN M. HARNEY.' 1789-1825.

265. From "Crystallina: a Fairy Tale."

On the stormy heath a ring they form;
They place therein the fearful maid,
And round her dance in the howling storm.
The winds beat hard on her lovely head;
But she clasped her hands, and nothing said.

O, 'twas, I ween, a ghastly sight

To see their uncouth revelry. The lightning was the taper bright, The thunder was the melody,

To which they danced with horrid glee.

The fierce-eyed owl did on them scowl,
The bat played round on leathern wing,
The coal-black wolf did at them howl,

The coal-black raven did croak and sing,
And o'er them flap his dusky wing.

An earthquake heaved beneath their feet,
Pale meteors revelled in the sky,
The clouds sailed by like a routed fleet,

The night-winds shrieked as they passed by,
The dark-red moon was eclipsed on high.

1 One of the earliest poets of the west, but a native of Delaware.

CHARLES SPRAGUE. 1791-. (Manual, p. 514.)

266. From "Curiosity."

TURN to the Press - its teeming sheets survey,

Big with the wonders of each passing day;

Births, deaths, and weddings, forgeries, fires, and wrecks,
Harangues and hailstorms, brawls and broken necks;
Where half-fledged bards, on feeble pinions, seek
An immortality of near a week;

Where cruel eulogists the dead restore,

In maudlin praise, to martyr them once more;
Where ruffian slanderers wreak their coward spite,
And need no venomed dagger while they write.

Yet, sweet or bitter, hence what fountains burst,
While still the more we drink the more we thirst.
Trade hardly deems the busy day begun
Till his keen eye along the page has run;
The blooming daughter throws her needle by,
And reads her schoolmate's marriage with a sigh,
While the grave mother puts her glasses on,
And gives a tear to some old crony gone.
The preacher, too, his Sunday theme lays down
To know what last new folly fills the town.
Lively or sad, life's meanest, mightiest things,
The fate of fighting cocks, or fighting kings-
Nought comes amiss; we take the nauseous stuff,
Verjuice or oil, a libel or a puff.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 1791-1865. (Manual, pp. 484, 523.)

267. THE WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL.

DEAL gently, thou whose hand hath won
The young bird from its nest away,
Where, careless, 'neath a vernal sun,
She gayly carolled day by day;

The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve,
From where her timid wing doth soar

They pensive lisp at hush of eve,

Yet hear her gushing song no more.

Deal gently with her; thou art dear,
Beyond what vestal lips have told,
And, like a lamb from fountains clear,
She turns, confiding, to thy fold.
She round thy sweet, domestic bower
The wreath of changeless love shall twine,
Watch for thy step at vesper hour,

And blend her holiest prayer with thine.

Deal gently, thou, when, far away,

'Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, Nor let thy tender care decay

The soul of woman lives in love;

And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear,
Unconscious, from her eyelids break,

Be pitiful, and soothe the fear

That man's strong heart may ne'er partake.

A mother yields her gem to thee,

On thy true breast to sparkle rare ;
She places 'neath thy household tree
The idol of her fondest care;
And, by thy trust to be forgiven

When judgment wakes in terror wild,
By all thy treasured hopes of heaven,
Deal gently with the widow's child.

WILLIAM O. BUTLER.' 1793-.

268. From "The Boatman's Horn."

O BOATMAN, wind that horn again;
For never did the listening air
Upon its lambent bosom bear

So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain.
What though thy notes are sad and few,

By every simple boatman blown ?

Yet is each pulse to nature true,

And melody in every tone.
How oft, in boyhood's joyous day,

Unmindful of the lapsing hours,

1 A native of Kentucky; a favorite western poet; at one time prominent as a politician.

I've loitered on my homeward way,

By wild Ohio's bank of flowers, While some lone boatman from the deck Poured his soft numbers to that tide, As if to charm from storm and wreck The boat where all his fortunes ride! Delighted Nature drank the sound, Enchanted Echo bore it round In whispers soft and softer still, From hill to plain, and plain to hill.

269. THE BATTLE-FIELD OF RAISIN.

THE battle's o'er; the din is past;
Night's mantle on the field is cast;
The Indian yell is heard no more;
The silence broods o'er Erie's shore.
At this lone hour I go to tread
The field where valor vainly bled;
To raise the wounded warrior's crest,
Or warm with tears his icy breast;
To treasure up his last command,
And bear it to his native land.
It may one pulse of joy impart
To a fond mother's bleeding heart,
Or, for a moment, it may dry
The tear-drop in the widow's eye.
Vain hopes, away! The widow ne'er
Her warrior's dying wish shall hear.
The passing zephyr bears no sigh;
No wounded warrior meets the eye;
Death is his sleep by Erie's wave;
Of Raisin's snow we heap his grave.
How many hopes lie buried here—

The mother's joy, the father's pride, The country's boast, the foeman's fear, In 'wildered havoc, side by side! Lend me, thou silent queen of night, Lend me a while thy waning light, That I may see each well-loved form That sank beneath the morning storm.

1794-.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 1794-. (Manual, pp. 487, 524.)

270. From "Lines to a Water-Fowl."

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

271. From "The Antiquity of Freedom."

O FREEDOM, thou art not, as poets dream,
A fair, young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap
With which the Roman master crowned his slave
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailéd hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred