Mournfully, solemnly sounding near,
Telling of loved ones buried there,
Of the dying shriek and the dying prayer;
Telling of hearts still watching in vain
For those who shall never come back again;
Oh, no! the ocean can never rest
With such secrets hidden within its breast.
But a day shall come, a blessed day,
When earthly sorrow shall pass away,
When the hour of anguish shall turn to peace,
And even the roar of the waves shall cease.
_Concert._ But, oh! thou glorious, beautiful sea,
There is health, and joy, and delight in thee.
Solemnly, sweetly, I hear thy voice
Bidding me weep and yet rejoice:
Weep for the loved ones buried beneath,
Rejoice in Him who has conquered death;
Weep for the sorrowing, tempest-tossed,
Rejoice in Him who has saved the lost;
Weep for the sin and sorrow of strife,
Rejoice in the hope of eternal life!
THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC.
REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER.
[_Selection for Twelve Students._]
=January.= Darkness and light reign alike. Snow is on the ground, cold
is in the air. The winter is blossoming in frost-flowers. Old sounds are
silent in the forest and in the air. Insects are dead, birds are gone,
leaves have perished. So hath God wiped out the past; so hath he spread
the earth, like an unwritten page, for a new year.
=February.= As the month wears on its silent work begins, though storms
rage. The earth is hidden yet, but not dead. The sun is drawing near. He
whispers words of deliverance into the ears of every sleeping seed and
root that lies beneath the snow. The day opens, but the night shuts the
earth with its frost-lock; but day steadily gains upon the night.
=March.= The conflict is more turbulent, but the victory is gained. The
world awakes. There come voices from long-hidden birds. The smell of the
soil is in the air. The sullen ice, retreating from open field and all
sunny places, has slunk to the north of every fence and rock. The knolls
and banks that face the east or south sigh for release, and begin to lift
up a thousand tiny palms.
=April.= The singing month. Many voices of many birds call for
resurrection over the graves of flowers, and they come forth. Go, see
what they have lost. What have ice, and snow, and storm done unto them?
How did they fall into the earth, stripped and bare? How did they come
forth, opening and glorified? Is it, then, so fearful a thing to lie in
the grave? In its wild career, shaking and scourged of storms through its
orbit, the earth has scattered away no treasures. The Hand that governs
in April governed in January. You have not lost what God has only hidden.
You lose nothing in struggle, in trial, in bitter distress.
=May.= O Flower-month! perfect the harvests of flowers. Be not niggardly.
Search out the cold and resentful nooks that refused the sun, casting
back its rays from disdainful ice, and plant flowers even there. There
is goodness in the worst. There is warmth in the coldest. The silent,
hopeful, unbreathing sun, that will not fret or despond, but carries a
placid brow through the unwrinkled heavens, at length conquers the very
rocks, and lichens grow and inconspicuously blossom. What shall not Time
do, that carries in its bosom Love?
=June.= Rest! This is the year’s bower. Sit down within it. The winds
bring perfume, the forests sing to thee, the earth shows thee all her
treasures. The air is all sweetness. The storms are but as flocks of
mighty birds that spread their wings and sing in the high heaven. The
earth cries to the heavens, “God is here!” The heavens cry to the earth,
“God is here!” The land claims him, and his footsteps are upon the sea.
O sunny joys of sunny June, how soon will you be scorched by the eager
months coming burning from the equator!
=July.= Rouse up! The temperate heats that filled the air are raging
forward to glow and overfill the earth. There are deep and unreached
places for whose sake the probing sun pierces down its glowing hands.
The earth shall drink of the heat before she knows her nature or her
strength. Then shall she bring forth to the uttermost the treasures of
her bosom. For there are things hidden far down, and the deep things of
life are not known till the fire reveals them.
=August.= Reign, thou Fire-month! Neither shalt thou destroy the earth
which frosts and ice could not destroy. The vines droop, the trees
stagger, but every night the dew pities them. This is the rejoicing month
for joyful insects, the most populous and the happiest month. The air is
resonant of insect orchestras, each one carrying his part in nature’s
grand harmony. August, thou art the ripeness of the year, the glowing
center of the great circle.
=September.= There are thoughts in thy heart of death. Thou art doing
a secret work, and heaping up treasures for another year. The unborn
infant-buds which thou art tending are more than all the living leaves.
Thy robes are luxuriant, but worn with softened pride. More dear, less
beautiful than June, thou art the heart’s month. Not till the heats of
summer are gone, while all its growths remain, do we know the fullness of
life. Thy hands are stretched out, and clasp the glowing palm of August,
and the fruit-smelling hand of October. Thou dividest them asunder, and
art thyself molded of them both.
=October.= Orchard of the year! Bend thy boughs to the earth, redolent
of glowing fruit! Ripened seeds shake in their pods. Apples drop in the
stillest hours. Leaves begin to let go when no wind is out, and swing
in long waverings to the earth, which they touch without sound, and lie
looking up, till winds rake them and heap them in fence-corners. When the
gales come through the trees, the yellow leaves trail, like sparks at
night behind the flying engine. The woods are thinner, so that we can
see the heavens plainer, as we lie dreaming on the yet warm moss by the
singing spring. The days are calm. The nights are tranquil. The year’s
work is done. She walks in gorgeous apparel, looking upon her long labor,
and her serene eye saith, “It is good.”
=November.= Patient watcher, thou art asking to lay down thy tasks.
Life to thee, now, is only a task accomplished. In the night-time thou
liest down, and the messengers of winter deck thee with hoar-frosts for
thy burial. The morning looks upon thy jewels, and they perish while it
gazes. Wilt thou not come, O December?
=December.= Silently the month advances. There is nothing to destroy,
but much to bury. Bury, then, thou snow, that slumberously fallest
through the still air, the hedgerows of leaves! Muffle thy cold wool
about the feet of shivering trees! Bury all that the year hath known, and
let thy brilliant stars, that never shine as they do in thy frostiest
nights, behold the work! But know, O month of destruction, that in thy
constellation is set that Star whose rising is the sign, for evermore,
that there is life in death! Thou art the month of resurrection. In thee
the Christ came. Every star that looks down upon thy labor and toil of
burial knows that all things shall come forth again. Storms shall sob
themselves to sleep. Silence shall find a voice. Death shall live, Life
shall rejoice, Winter shall break forth and blossom into Spring, Spring
shall put on her glorious apparel and be called Summer. It is life! it is
life! through the whole year!
TWO EPITAPHS.
[The following can be read by a class in concert, or by two sections of a
class. It is a fine exercise in transition from soft to loud Force, slow
to quick Time, low to high Pitch, minor to major Inflection.]
I.
“Think of Death!” the grave-stones say,—
“Peace to Life’s mad striving!”
II.
But the church-yard daisies,—“Nay,
Think of Living!”
“Think of Life!” the sunbeams say,
O’er the dial flying;
I.
But the slanting shadows,—“Nay,
Think of Dying!”
“Think of Death!” the night birds say,
On the storm-blast driving;
II.
But the building swallows,—“Nay,
Think of Living!”
“Think of Life!” the broad winds say,
Through the old trees sighing;
I.
But the whirling leaf-dance,—“Nay,
Think of Dying!”
“Think of Death!” the sad bells say,
Fateful record giving;
II.
Clash the merry Yule-peal,—“Nay,
Think of Living!”
_Concert._ Dying, Living, glad or loath,
On God’s Rood relying;
Pray He fit us all for both—
Living, Dying!
_From the German._
THE CATARACT OF LODORE.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
[_For Solo and Concert Recitation._]
[Variations in Force, Time, Pitch, Quality, Staccato and Legato effect,
to be made according to the idea expressed by the different words.]
_Solo._
“How does the water come down at Lodore?”
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time,
And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon at the word
There first came one daughter,
And then came another
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water came down at Lodore,
So I told them in rhyme, for of rhymes I had store,
And ’twas in my vocation
For their recreation,
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate to them and the King.
_Solo._
From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
Through moss and through brake
It runs and it creeps
For a while till it sleeps
In its own little lake;
It runs through the reeds and away it proceeds
Through meadow and glade, in sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter, among crags in its flurry
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry!
The cataract strong then plunges along,
Striking and raging as if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among.
_Concert._
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,—
_Solo._
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
_Concert._
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And moaning and groaning.
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering.
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and furling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and crashing—
_Solo._
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending
All at once, and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
CAVALRY SONG.
EDMUND C. STEDMAN.
[_For Boys’ Recitation._]
I.
Our good steeds snuff the winter air,
Our pulses with their purpose tingle;
The foeman’s fires are twinkling there;
He leaps to hear our sabers jingle.
HALT!
Each carbine send its whizzing ball;
Now cling! clang! forward, all,
Into the fight!
II.
Dash on beneath the smoking dome;
Through level lightnings gallop nearer!
One look to Heaven. No thoughts of home;
The guidons that we bear are dearer.
CHARGE!
Cling! clang! forward, all!
Heaven help those whose horses fall!
Cut left and right!
III.
They flee before our fierce attack!
They fall! they spread in broken surges.
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back,
And leave the foeman to his dirges.
WHEEL!
The bugles sound the swift recall;
Cling! clang! backward, all!
Home, and good-night!
RECITATIONS FOR MUSIC.
THE ANGELUS.
FRANCES L. MACE.
[_For pianissimo musical accompaniment._]
Ring soft across the dying day,
Angelus!
Across the amber-tinted bay,
The meadow flushed with sunset ray,—
Ring out, and float, and melt away,
Angelus.
The day of toil seems long ago,
Angelus;
While through the deepening vesper glow,
Far up where holy lilies blow,
Thy beckoning bell-notes rise and flow,
Angelus.
Through dazzling curtains of the west,
Angelus!
We see a shrine in roses dressed,
And lifted high in vision blest,
Our very heart-throb is confessed,
Angelus.
Oh, has an angel touched the bell,
Angelus?
For now upon its parting swell
All sorrow seems to sing farewell,
There falls a peace no words can tell,
Angelus!
HOPE’S SONG.
HELEN M. WINSLOW.
The golden dreams of youth
Assume a guise of truth
Which age keeps never,
For Hope’s voice singeth ever,
“Oh, youth and strong endeavor,
Can win the highest good forever.”
Love’s subtle intuition
Divines life’s glad fruition,
Distrusting never;
And sweetly Hope sings ever,
“True love and sweet endeavor
Shall hold the highest good forever.”
Love’s sacred tryst is broken,
Heart-breaking words are spoken
Her bonds to sever;
But still Hope singeth ever,
“Brave heart and strong endeavor
Must find the highest good forever.”
Pale hands are crossed in death;
Gone is the quivering breath;
And still a low voice never
Stops echoing, echoing ever,
“Brave heart and strong endeavor
Have won the highest good forever.”
THE SUNRISE NEVER FAILED US YET.
MRS. CELIA THAXTER.
Upon the sadness of the sea
The sunset broods regretfully;
From the far, lonely spaces, slow
Withdraws the wistful after-glow.
So out of life the splendor dies;
So darken all the happy skies;
So gathers twilight, cold and stern—
But overhead the planets burn.
And up the east another day
Shall chase the bitter dark away;
What though our eyes with tears be wet?
The sunrise never failed us yet!
The blush of dawn may yet restore
Our light, and hope, and joy, once more.
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget
That sunrise never failed us yet!
A WINTER SONG.
[With light, running _staccato_ and _legato_ accompaniments.]
Oh, summer has the roses
And the laughing, light south wind,
And the merry meadows lined
With dewy, dancing posies;
But winter has the sprites
And the witching frosty nights.
Oh, summer has the splendor
Of the corn-fields wide and deep,
Where the scarlet poppies sleep
And wary shadows wander;
But winter fields are rare
With diamonds everywhere.
Oh, summer has the wild bees,
And the ringing, singing note
In the robin’s tuneful throat,
And the leaf-talk in the trees;
But winter has the chime
Of the merry Christmas time.
Oh, summer has the luster
Of the sunbeams warm and bright,
And rains that fall at night
Where reeds and lilies cluster;
But deep in winter’s snow
The fires of Christmas glow.
_St. Nicholas._
THE CONCERT REHEARSAL.
WOLSTAN DIXEY.
Oh, it was a musical old Beetle!
And oh, it was a honey-throated Bee!
But the dandified young Hopper,
He couldn’t sing it proper,
And the Cricket—out of tune was he.
They sung and they sung,
And the harebells swung
A tinkling _obligato_ in the breeze;
While the Beetle, singing-master,
Tried to make them sing it faster,
By patting off the _tempo_ on his knees.
And oh! it was a Robin overheard them,
Who happened out a-walking in the glade,
And he laughed in every feather
When they tried to sing together
At the funny little noises that they made.
He listened and he listened,
And his eyes they fairly glistened
As the Bee so sweetly bumbled out the air;
But the Cricket struck another,
And the Robin thought he’d smother
Trying not to let them know that he was there.
Then oh, the Bee declared that “It was shameful!”
And angrily sipped honey from a comb;
“She was ruining her throat
And wouldn’t sing another note
Until the others studied it at home!”
The Cricket said that he
Never _could_ keep in the key
When the wind was blowing that way from the south,
And young Hopper made excuses
In reply to these abuses,
That he had too much molasses in his mouth.
Then oh! the beetle-headed old conductor
Arose and made a few remarks in turn;
“The soprano is so vicious
And affairs so unpropitious,
The best thing we can do is to adjourn.
“Taking everything together,
The molasses and the weather,
And the fact that we can’t any of us sing,
There is quite sufficient reason
That we wait another season
And postpone our little concert till the spring!”
ROCK OF AGES.
[The quoted words can be either sung or recited. The melody should
be played through once before the beginning of the recitation. The
accompaniment, _pianissimo_, should run through the entire poem, being
definite, and _piano_ only on the quoted lines.]
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung,
Fell the words unconsciously
From her girlish, gleeful tongue;
Sang as little children sing;
Sang as sing the birds in June;
Fell the words like light leaves down
On the current of the tune—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”
“Let me hide myself in Thee,”—
Felt her soul no need to hide;
Sweet the song as song could be,
And she had no thought beside.
All the words unheedingly
Fell from lips untouched by care,
Dreaming not that they might be
On some other lips a prayer—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
’Twas a woman sung them now,
Pleadingly and prayerfully;
Every word her heart did know.
Rose the song, as a storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wings the air;
Every note with sorrow stirred—
Every syllable a prayer—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
Lips grown aged sung the hymn
Trustingly and tenderly—
Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim.
“Let me hide myself in Thee,”
Trembling though the voice and low,
Rose the sweet strain peacefully
Like a river in its flow.
Sang as only they can sing
Who life’s thorny paths have passed;
Sang as only they can sing
Who behold the promised rest—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
Sung above a coffin-lid;
Underneath all restfully
All life’s joys and sorrows hid.
Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul,
Nevermore, from wind or tide,
Nevermore from billows’ roll
Wilt thou need thyself to hide.
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,
Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffened lips
Move again in pleading prayer—
Still, aye still, the words would be,
“Let me hide myself in Thee.”
POETS’ BIRTHDAYS.
THE BLESSING OF THE POETS.—I think it a very great boon which Heaven
bestows on any nation when it sends a real poet among the people, like
Longfellow or Whittier. I can’t understand why we take the gift so
coldly. In some of the poems of Whittier you can almost hear the rustling
of the leaves of the old family Bible, and in Longfellow’s lines you can
listen to the rain on your roof, as you heard it while lying in your
chamber in your childhood. It really seems to me that the whole poetic
atmosphere of our time has been filled with a new fragrance by Whittier
and Longfellow. They have taught us to prize afresh the loftiest virtues
and the lowliest charities. Well may they indeed be called “Our Poets of
the Household.” You may call them primary or secondary, if you choose;
but their motive-power remains unquenchable and unchallengeable, and
their words are graven in the hearts all over the human world.—JAMES T.
FIELDS.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Born Nov. 3, 1794. Died June 12, 1878.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.
Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless
The heart,—its teachers and its joy,—
As mothers blend with their caress
Lessons of truth and gentleness
And virtue for the listening boy.
Spring’s lovelier flowers for many a day
Have blossomed on his wandering way;
Beings of beauty and decay,
They slumber in their autumn tomb;
But those that graced his own Green River
And wreathed the lattice of his home,
Charmed by his song from mortal doom,
Bloom on, and will bloom on forever.
* * * * *
Bryant had a wonderful memory. His familiarity with the English poets
was such that when at sea, where he was always too ill to read much,
he would beguile the time by reciting page after page from favorite
poems. He assured me that however long the voyage, he had never exhausted
his resources. He was scarcely less familiar with the languages and
literatures of Germany, France and Spain, Greece and Rome. He spoke all
living languages except the Greek with facility and correctness.—JOHN
BIGELOW.
* * * * *
The name of Bryant cannot be mentioned by any friend to American
letters without respect as well as admiration. The hold that he has on
the profoundest feelings of his countrymen is to be referred to the
genuineness, delicacy, depth, and purity of his sentiment. He is so
genuine that he testifies to nothing in scenery or human life of which
he has not had a direct personal consciousness. He follows the primitive
bias of his nature rather than the caprices of fancy. His compositions
always leave the impression of having been born, not manufactured or
made.—EDWIN P. WHIPPLE.
* * * * *
It is the glory of this man that his character outshone even his great
talent and his large fame. Distinguished equally for his native gifts and
his consummate culture, his poetic inspiration and his exquisite art, he
is honored and loved to-day even more for his stainless purity of life,
his unswerving rectitude of will, his devotion to the higher interests of
his race, his unfeigned patriotism, and his broad humanity.—REV. HENRY W.
BELLOWS.
* * * * *
When Cooper died, the restless city paused to hear Bryant’s words of
praise and friendship. When Irving followed Cooper, all hearts turned to
Bryant. Now Bryant has followed Cooper and Irving, the last of that early
triumvirate of American literature. The broad and simple outline of his
character and career had become universally familiar like a mountain or
the sea. A patriarch of our literature, the oldest of our poets, he felt
the magic of human sympathy, the impulse of his country, the political
genius of his race, and was a public political leader.—GEORGE WILLIAM
CURTIS.
A BRYANT ALPHABET.
Alike, beneath thine eye,
The deeds of darkness and of light are done;
High towards the star-lit sky
Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun.
_Hymn to the North Star._
Beneath the forest’s skirt I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the thread-like foliage sigh.
_The West Wind._
Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence
Came the deep murmur of its throng of men;
And as its grateful odors met thy sense,
They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.
_To a Mosquito._
Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air;
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Of the chariot of God, in the thunder-cloud!
_The Hurricane._
Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared
The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet,
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits.
_The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus._
Far back in the ages,
The plow with wreaths was crowned;
The hands of kings and sages
Entwined the chaplet round.
_Ode for an Agricultural Celebration._
Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
To weave the dance that measures the years;
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent
To the furthest wall of the firmament.
_Song of the Stars._
Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock
Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock;
While those who seek to slay thy children, hold
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold.
_Hymn of the Waldenses._
I know where the timid fawn abides
In the depths of the shaded dell,
Where the leaves are broad, and the thicket hides
From the eye of the hunter well.
_An Indian Story._
Journeying, in long serenity, away
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee!
_October._
Knit they the gentle ties which long
These Sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong
For idle hands in sport to tear?
_Not Yet._
Lament who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly;
I sigh not over vanished years,
But watch the years that hasten by.
_The Lapse of Time._
Might but a little part,
A wandering breath, of that high melody
Descend into my heart,
And change it till it be
Transformed and swallowed up, O love, in thee!
_The Life of the Blessed._
Not from the sands or cloven rocks,
Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;
Nor earth, within her bosom, locks
Thy dark unfathomed wells below.
_To the River Arve._
Oh, 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.
“_Blessed are they that Mourn._”
Peace to the just man’s memory; let it grow
Greener with years, and blossom through the flight
Of ages.
_The Ages._
——the great deep
Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air
Above a furnace.
_Sella._