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Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, And, last, Man's Life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends--the good--the kind, Yielded to thee with tears,-- The venerable form--the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back;--yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain:--thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Nor to the streaming eye Thou giv'st them back,--nor to the broken heart.

In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown;--to thee Earth's wonder and her pride Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea;

Labors of good to man, Unpublish'd charity, unbroken faith,-- Love, that midst grief began, And grew with years, and falter'd not in death.

Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unutter'd, unrevered; With thee are silent fame, Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear'd.

Thine for a space are they:-- Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; Thy gates shall yet give way, Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, Shall then come forth, to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perish'd--no! Kind words, remember'd voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul's apparent seat,

All shall come back; each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again; Alone shall Evil die, And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung, And her who, still and cold, Fills the next grave,--the beautiful and young.

THE MURDERED TRAVELER.

WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again; The murdered traveler's bones were found, Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung Her tassels in the sky; And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded careless by.

The red bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead; And fearless, near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so, The fearful death he met, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Unarmed and hard beset;

Nor how, when round the frosty pole, The northern dawn was red, The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole To banquet on the dead;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home; And dreamed, and started as they slept, For joy that he was come.

Long, long they looked--but never spied His welcome step again. Nor knew the fearful death he died Far down that narrow glen.

THE BATTLEFIELD.

Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza ?beginning--"Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,"--said: "Mr. Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each beyond a king's ransom."

? 'begining' replaced with 'beginning'

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her brave,-- Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry: Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weapon'd throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown--yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

THE CROWDED STREETS.

LET me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-shifting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

How fast the flitting figures come; The mild, the fierce, the stony face-- Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest-- To halls in which the feast is spread-- To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the bed.

And some to happy homes repair, Where children pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye, Go'st thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow, Who is now fluttering in thy snare, Thy golden fortunes tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air?

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread The dance till daylight gleams again? To sorrow o'er the untimely dead? Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to night.

Each where his tasks or pleasure call, They pass and heed each other not; There is one who heeds, who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought.

These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.

NOTICE OF FITZ-GREEN HALLECK.

As a specimen of Mr. Bryant's prose, of which he wrote much, and also as a sample of his criticism, we reprint the following extract from a Commemorative Address which he delivered before the New York Historical Society in February 1869. This selection is also valuable as a character sketch and a literary estimate of Mr. Halleck.

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