Among the first to make a creditable appearance in the
field of American literature was Richard Henry Dana,
the last of the writers of his generation who achieved
success both in prose and verse, and won the right to
be ranked among the most vigorous authors of the first
half of the present century.—_James Grant Wilson._
From “THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL.”
Turn with me from pining thought
And all the inward ills that sin has wrought;
Come, send abroad a love for all who live,
And feel the deep content in turn they give.
Kind wishes and good deeds—they make not poor;
They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door.
The streams of love flow back where they begin;
For springs of outward joys lie deep within.
E’en let them flow, and make the places glad
Where dwell thy fellow-men, shouldst thou be sad,
And earth seems bare, and hours, once happy, press
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near;
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,
And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,
That now upon the water dances. Now,
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.
Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell
The power that wrought so beautiful a spell?
In thine own bosom, brother? Then, as thine,
Guard with a reverent fear this power divine,
And if, indeed, ’tis not the outward state,
But temper of the soul, by which we rate
Sadness or joy, e’en let thy bosom move
With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love;
And let each feeling in thy breast be given
An honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven,
And springing into act, new life imparts,
Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.
The earth is full of life; the living hand
Touched it with life; and all its forms expand
With principles of being made to suit
Man’s varied powers, and raise from the brute.
And shall the earth of higher ends be full,—
Earth which thou tread’st,—and thy poor mind be dull,
Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!
Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leap
Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow
Thro’ thy soul’s shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou know
Something of what is life, shake off this death;
Have thy soul feel the universal breath
With which all nature’s quick, and learn to be
Sharer in all thou dost touch or see;
Break from thy body’s grasp, thy spirit’s trance;
Give to thy soul air, thy faculties expanse;
Love, joy, e’en sorrow—yield thyself to all!
They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall,
Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind
To dust and sense, and set at large the mind;
Then move in sympathy with God’s great whole;
And be, like man at first, A Living Soul!
A Clump of Daisies.
Ye daisies gay,
This fresh spring day
Closed gathered here together,
To play in the light,
To sleep all the night,
To abide through the sullen weather;
Ye creatures bland,
A simple band,
Ye free ones, linked in pleasure,
And linked when your forms
Stoop low in the storms,
And the rain comes down without measure;
When the wild clouds fly
Athwart the sky,
And ghostly shadows, glancing,
Are darkening the gleam
Of the hurrying stream,
And your close, bright heads gayly dancing;
Though dull awhile,
Again ye smile;
For, see, the warm sun breaking;
The stream’s going glad,
There’s nothing now sad,
And the small bird his song is waking.
The dew-drop sip
With dainty lip!
The sun is low descended,
And moon, softly fall
On troops true and small;
Sky and earth in one kindly blended.
And, morning! spread
Their jewelled bed
With lights in the east sky springing;
And, brook! breathe around
Thy low murmured sound!
May they move, ye birds, to your singing;
For in their play
I hear them say,
Here, man, thy wisdom borrow;
In heart be a child,
In words, true and mild;
Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow.