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BAYARD TAYLOR (1825-1878)

Of the writers of the younger group which began to come into prominence by the middle of the century by far the most promising was Bayard Taylor. During the two decades before his death he laid hold strongly upon the imagination of America, and it was everywhere felt that he was ultimately to rank with Longfellow and Whittier and Lowell. He had come from humble surroundings in Pennsylvania, had been schooled largely in a rural printing office, and at nineteen had issued a volume of poems and then almost without funds, started upon a picturesque journey through Europe. Views Afoot, 1846, tells the story of it. Upon his return to America he secured a position on the New York Tribune, was sent to California to report the gold excitement of 1849, made a second journey to Europe in 1851, extending it into Africa and to India and China, and returning, published among other things his Poems of the Orient, 1854. During the rest of his life he was a picturesque figure, the great American traveler,' greatly sought after by lyceum lecture courses all over America. He made other trips abroad, was secretary of legation to Russia, and in 1878 was appointed United States Minister to Germany, but died shortly after reaching his post.

The literary productiveness of Taylor was marvelous. His books aggregate nearly fifty titles, some twelve of them records of travel, three of them novels, several of them translations and studies in German literature, some of them essays and boys' books, the rest of them poetry, and in addition to all this was a great mass of newspaper and magazine work and lectures. His literary ambition. however, centered upon poetry. More and more during his later period he put forth his best efforts to produce what should make him remembered in later years. He wrote dramas.- The Masque of the Gods, 1872. The Prophet, A Tragedy, 1874. Prince Denkalion, 1878; he came before the nation on two great occasions with The Gettysburg Ode, 1869, and The Centennial Ode, 1876; and he added to our literature what undoubtedly is the best translation in English of Goethe's Faust, but it is realized now that he failed in his ambition. He was not a poet of high rank. He had facility, but not large creative power or originality. His brilliant parodies in his book The Echo Club show the strength and the weakness of the man. He was not a plagiarist, yet it may be said that the greater part of what he wrote would never have been written had earlier poets not written. To realize this one needs but to compare Shelley's Indian Serenade' with the 'Bedouin Song.' Taylor's phenomenal memory was stocked with the poetry of all the world and he wrote, unconsciously doubtless, always from a recollection of this store-house rather than from a driving creative impulse that sent him into fields new and strange.

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Our ancient blood beats restless in repose.
Challenge of Nature unsubdued
Awaits not Man's defiant answer long;
For hardship, even as wrong,
Provokes the level-eyed heroic mood.
This for herself she did; but that which lies,
As over earth the skies,
Blending all forms in one benignant glow,-
Crowned conscience, tender care,
Justice that answers every bondman's prayer,
Freedom where Faith may lead or Thought
may dare

The power of minds that know,

Passion of hearts that feel,
Purchased by blood and woe,
Guarded by fire and steel,-

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100

Hath she secured? What blazon on her

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Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood, As rich in fortitude

As e'er went worldward from the islandwall!

Fused in her candid light,

To one strong race all races here unite: 140 Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan;

'T was glory, once, to be a Roman: She makes it glory, now, to be a Man!

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Doff thine aeonian crown!

One hour forget

The glory, and recall the debt:
Make expiation

Of humbler mood,

For the pride of thine exultation

O'er peril conquered and strife subdued! But half the right is wrested

When victory yields her prize. And half the marrow tested

When old endurance dies.

In the sight of them that love thee,
Bow to the Greater above thee!

He faileth not to smite

The idle ownership of Right,

Nor spares to sinews fresh from trial,
And virtue schooled in long denial,
The tests that wait for thee

In larger perils of prosperity.

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Here, at the Century's awful shrine, 165
Bow to thy Father's God- and thine!
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Behold! she bendeth now,

Humbling the chaplet of her hundred years: There is a solemn sweetness on her brow, And in her eyes are sacred tears.

Can she forget,

In present joy, the burden of her debt, When for a captive race

She grandly staked and won

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