Read Ebook: Library of the best American literature Containing the lives of our authors in story form their portraits their homes and their personal traits how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers embracing great American poets and by Birdsall William W William Wilfred Editor Jones Rufus M Rufus Matthew Editor

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WAITING BY THE GATE.

BESIDES the massive gateway built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.

The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.

Behold the portals open and o'er the threshold, now, There steps a wearied one with pale and furrowed brow; His count of years is full, his ?allotted task is wrought; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day, And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throws A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and fair.

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays! Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze! Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where.

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn; But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds sing on; And I again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strews Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So from every region, so enter side by side, The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride, Steps of earth's greatest, mightiest, between those pillars gray, And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy are drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart; And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.

? 'alloted' replaced with 'allotted'

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN."

O DEEM not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,-- Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day, And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here.

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

HERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never touch'd by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungather'd. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass A fragrance from the cedars thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades-- Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old-- My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of Liberty. 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 crown'd his slave, When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Arm'd to the teeth, art thou: one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr'd With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has launch'd His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound, The links are shiver'd, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. Thy birth-right was not given by human hands: Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes: and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrows on the mountain side, Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself, The enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obey'd, Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age; Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His wither'd hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms With chains conceal'd in chaplets. Oh! not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps. And thou must watch and combat, till the day Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou rest Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth, And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

TO A WATERFOWL.

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 limn'd upon the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd 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.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

MERRILY swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers, while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can. Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half-forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee.

DROUGHT.

PLUNGED amid the limpid waters, Or the cooling shade beneath, Let me fly the scorching sunbeams, And the southwind's sickly breath!

Sirius burns the parching meadows, Flames upon the embrowning hill, Dries the foliage of the forest, And evaporates the rill.

Scarce is seen the lonely floweret, Save amid the embowering wood; O'er the prospect dim and dreary, Drought presides in sullen mood!

Murky vapours hung in ether, Wrap in gloom, the sky serene; Nature pants distressful--silence Reigns o'er all the sultry scene.

Then amid the limpid waters, Or beneath the cooling shade, Let me shun the scorching sunbeams And the sickly breeze evade.

THE PAST.

No poet, perhaps, in the world is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant.

He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors. The following poem is a fair specimen of his deep vein in his chosen serious themes. Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of melancholy in his treatment is always pleasing.

THOU unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

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