Is it not like a glowworm lying unseen amid the grass and flowers, and
all through the night casting a mellow radiance over them and filling
them with divine beauty?"
[Illustration: The Song of the Lark.]
"I do not like the comparison so well," was the answer. "Yet, after all,
there is nothing so like it as a poet--as yourself, for instance."
"No poet ever had its skill, because no poet was ever so free from
care," said Shelley, sadly. "It is like an unbodied joy floating
unrestrained whithersoever it will. Ah, Mary, if I had but half the
gladness that this bird or spirit must know, I would write such poetry
as would bewitch the world, and all men would listen, entranced, to my
song."
That night the poet could not sleep for thinking of the skylark's song.
The next day he sat alone in his study, putting into harmonious words
the thoughts that filled his mind. In the evening he read to Mary a new
poem, entitled "To a Skylark." It was full of the melody inspired by the
song of the bird. Its very meter suggested the joyous flight, the
fluttering pauses, the melodious swervings, the heavenward ascent of the
bird. No poem has ever been written that is fuller of beautiful images
and sweet and joyous harmonies.
Have you ever listened to the song of a bird and tried to attune your
own thoughts to its unrestrained and untaught melodies? There are no
true skylarks in America, and therefore you may never be able to repeat
the experience of the poet or fully to appreciate the "harmonious
madness" of his matchless poem; for no other bird is so literally the
embodiment of song as the European skylark.
* * * * *
But now let us read Shelley's inimitable poem.
II. TO A SKYLARK
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;
Like a highborn maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;
Like a glowworm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view;
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Make faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chaunt,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught:
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From thy lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
HARK, HARK! THE LARK[49]
Hark, hark! The lark at Heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 49: From "Cymbeline," by William Shakespeare.]
EXPRESSION: Read Shelley's poem with care, trying to understand and
interpret the poet's enthusiasm as he watched the flight of the
lark. Point out the five passages in the poem which seem the most
striking or the most beautiful. Memorize Shakespeare's song and
repeat it in a pleasing manner. Point out any peculiarities you may
notice.
ECHOES OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION
I. PATRICK HENRY'S FAMOUS SPEECH[50]
Mr. President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of
hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to
the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the
part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty?
Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not,
and, having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their
temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost,
I am willing to know the whole truth, to know the worst, and to provide
for it.
I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that lamp is the
lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the
past. And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in
the conduct of the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify
those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves
and the house?
Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately
received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer
not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this
gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike
preparations which cover our waters, and darken our land.
Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation?
Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be
called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These
are the implements of war and subjugation,--the last arguments to which
kings resort.
I ask, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to
force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive
for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to
call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has
none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are
sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British
ministry have been so long forging.
And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have
been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer
upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of
which it is capable, but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to
entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find, which have
not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive
ourselves longer.
Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which
is now coming on. We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have
supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have
implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the
ministry and Parliament.
Our petitions have been slighted, our remonstrances have produced
additional violence and insult, our supplications have been disregarded,
and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the throne. In
vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and
reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope.
If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate these
inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending, if we
mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so
long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until
the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained,--we must fight. I
repeat it, sir, we must fight. An appeal to arms, and to the God of
hosts, is all that is left us.
They tell us, sir, that we are weak,--unable to cope with so formidable
an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week,
or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a
British guard shall be stationed in every house?
Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire
the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and
hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound
us hand and foot?
Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the
God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed
in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we
possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against
us.
Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God
who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up
friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the
strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides,
sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now
too late to retire from the contest.
There is no retreat, but in submission and slavery. Our chains are
forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston. The war is
inevitable; and let it come!--I repeat it, sir, let it come. It is vain,
sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, peace! but there
is no peace. The war is actually begun.
The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the
clash of resounding arms. Our brethren are already in the field. Why
stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they
have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the
price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what
course others may take; but, as for me, give me liberty, or give me
death!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 50: Before the Virginia Convention, March 25, 1775.]
II. MARION'S MEN[51]
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
His friends and merry men are we,
And when the troop of Tarleton rides,
We burrow in the cypress tree.
The turfy hummock is our bed,
Our home is in the red deer's den,
Our roof, the treetop overhead,
For we are wild and hunted men.
We fly by day and shun its light,
But, prompt to strike the sudden blow,
We mount and start with early night,
And through the forest track our foe.
And soon he hears our chargers leap,
The flashing saber blinds his eyes,
And, ere he drives away his sleep
And rushes from his camp, he dies.
Free bridle bit, good gallant steed,
That will not ask a kind caress,
To swim the Santee at our need,
When on his heels the foemen press,--
The true heart and the ready hand,
The spirit stubborn to be free,
The trusted bore, the smiting brand,--
And we are Marion's men, you see.
[Illustration: Marion's Men.]
Now light the fire and cook the meal,
The last perhaps that we shall taste;
I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,
And that's a sign we move in haste.
He whistles to the scouts, and hark!
You hear his order calm and low,
Come, wave your torch across the dark,
And let us see the boys that go.
Now pile the brush and roll the log--
Hard pillow, but a soldier's head
That's half the time in brake and bog
Must never think of softer bed.
The owl is hooting to the night,
The cooter crawling o'er the bank,
And in that pond the flashing light
Tells where the alligator sank.
* * * * *
What! 'tis the signal! start so soon?
And through the Santee swamps so deep,
Without the aid of friendly moon,
And we, Heaven help us! half asleep?
But courage, comrades! Marion leads,
The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;
So clear your swords and spur your steeds,
There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
We leave the swamp and cypress tree,
Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,
And ready for the strife are we.
The Tory's camp is now in sight,
And there he cowers within his den;
He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,
He fears, and flies from Marion's men.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 51: By William Gilmore Simms, an American author (1806-1870).]
III. IN MEMORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON[52]
How, my fellow-citizens, shall I single to your grateful hearts his
preeminent worth? Where shall I begin in opening to your view a
character throughout sublime? Shall I speak of his warlike achievements,
all springing from obedience to his country's will--all directed to his
country's good?
Will you go with me to the banks of the Monongahela, to see our youthful
Washington supporting, in the dismal hour of Indian victory, the
ill-fated Braddock and saving, by his judgment and his valor, the
remains of a defeated army, pressed by the conquering savage foe? Or
when, oppressed America nobly resolving to risk her all in defense of
her violated right, he was elevated by the unanimous vote of Congress to
the command of her armies?
Will you follow him to the high grounds of Boston, where to an
undisciplined, courageous, and virtuous yeomanry his presence gave the
stability of system and infused the invincibility of love of country? Or
shall I carry you to the painful scenes of Long Island, York Island, and
New Jersey, when, combating superior and gallant armies, aided by
powerful fleets and led by chiefs high in the roll of fame, he stood the
bulwark of our safety, undismayed by disasters, unchanged by change of
fortune?
Or will you view him in the precarious fields of Trenton, where deep
gloom, unnerving every arm, reigned triumphant through our thinned,
worn-down, unaided ranks, to himself unknown? Dreadful was the night. It
was about this time of winter; the storm raged; the Delaware, rolling
furiously with floating ice, forbade the approach of man.
Washington, self-collected, viewed the tremendous scene. His country
called; unappalled by surrounding dangers, he passed to the hostile
shore; he fought, he conquered. The morning sun cheered the American
world. Our country rose on the event, and her dauntless chief, pursuing
his blow, completed in the lawns of Princeton what his vast soul had
conceived on the shores of the Delaware.
Thence to the strong grounds of Morristown he led his small but gallant
band; and through an eventful winter, by the high effort of his genius,
whose matchless force was measurable only by the growth of difficulties,
he held in check formidable hostile legions, conducted by a chief
experienced in the arts of war, and famed for his valor on the ever
memorable Heights of Abraham, where fell Wolfe, Montcalm, and since our
much-lamented Montgomery, all covered with glory. In this fortunate
interval, produced by his masterly conduct, our fathers, ourselves,
animated by his resistless example, rallied around our country's
standard, and continued to follow her beloved chief through the various
and trying scenes to which the destinies of our union led.
Who is there that has forgotten the vales of Brandywine, the fields of
Germantown, or the plains of Monmouth? Everywhere present, wants of
every kind obstructing, numerous and valiant armies encountering,
himself a host, he assuaged our sufferings, limited our privations, and
upheld our tottering Republic. Shall I display to you the spread of the
fire of his soul, by rehearsing the praises of the hero of Saratoga and
his much-loved compeer of the Carolinas? No; our Washington wears not
borrowed glory. To Gates, to Greene, he gave without reserve the
applause due to their eminent merit; and long may the chiefs of Saratoga
and of Eutaw receive the grateful respect of a grateful people.
Moving in his own orbit, he imparted heat and light to his most distant
satellites; and combining the physical and moral force of all within his
sphere, with irresistible weight, he took his course, commiserating
folly, disdaining vice, dismaying treason, and invigorating despondency;
until the auspicious hour arrived when united with the intrepid forces
of a potent and magnanimous ally, he brought to submission the since
conqueror of India; thus finishing his long career of military glory
with a luster corresponding to his great name, and in this, his last act
of war, affixing the seal of fate to our nation's birth....
First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen,
he was second to none in the humble and endearing scenes of private
life. Pious, just, humane, temperate, and sincere, uniform, dignified,
and commanding, his example was edifying to all around him, as were the
effects of that example lasting.
To his equals he was condescending; to his inferiors, kind; and to the
dear object of his affections, exemplarily tender. Correct throughout,
vice shuddered in his presence, and virtue always felt his fostering
hand; the purity of his private character gave effulgence to his public
virtues. His last scene comported with the whole tenor of his life.
Although in extreme pain, not a sigh, not a groan, escaped him; and with
undisturbed serenity he closed his well-spent life. Such was the man
America has lost! Such was the man for whom our nation mourns!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 52: By Henry Lee of Virginia. Extract from an oration
delivered in the House of Representatives, 1799.]
THREE GREAT AMERICAN POEMS
I
One day when Dr. Peter Bryant of Cummington, Massachusetts, was looking
through his writing desk, he found a small package of papers on which
some verses were written. He recognized the neat, legible handwriting as
that of his son, and he paused to open the papers and read. Presently,
he called aloud to his wife, "Here, Sallie, just listen to this poem
which Cullen has written!"
He began to read, and as he read, the proud mother listened with tears
in her eyes. "Isn't that grand?" she cried. "I've always told you that
Cullen would be a poet. And now just think what a pity it is that he
must give up going to Yale College and settle down to the study of law!"
"Yes, wife," responded Dr. Bryant, "it is to be regretted. But people
with small means cannot always educate their children as they wish. A
lawyer is a better breadwinner than most poets are, and I am satisfied
that our boy will be a successful lawyer."
"Of course he will," said Mrs. Bryant; "he will succeed at anything he
may undertake. But that poem--why, Wordsworth never wrote anything half
so grand or beautiful. What is the title?"
"Thanatopsis."
"Thanatopsis? I wonder what it means."
"It is from two Greek words, and means 'A View of Death.' I have half a
notion to take the poem to Boston with me next winter. I want to show it
to my friend Mr. Philips."
"Oh, do; and take some of Cullen's other poems with it. Perhaps he might
think some of them good enough to publish."
Dr. Peter Bryant was at that time a member of the senate in the
Massachusetts general assembly. When the time came for the meeting of
the assembly he went up to Boston, and he did not forget to take several
of his son's poems with him. The _North American Review_ was a great
magazine in those days, and Dr. Bryant was well acquainted with Mr.
Philips, one of its editors. He called at the office of the _Review_,
and not finding Mr. Philips, he left the package of manuscript with his
name written upon it.
When Mr. Philips returned he found the package, and after reading the
poems concluded that Dr. Bryant had written "Thanatopsis," and that the
others were probably by his son Cullen.
"It is a remarkable poem--a remarkable poem," he said, as he showed it
to his two fellow-editors. "We have never published anything better in
the _Review_," he said, and he began to read it to them.
When he had finished, one of them, Richard Henry Dana, who was himself a
poet, said doubtingly:
"Mr. Philips, you have been imposed upon. There is no person in America
who can write a poem like that."
"Ah, but I know the man who wrote it," answered Mr. Philips. "He is in
the state senate, and he isn't a man who would impose upon any person."
"Well, I must have a look at the man who can write such lines as those,"
said Mr. Dana.
He went to the statehouse, and to the senate chamber, and asked to see
Senator Bryant. A tall, gray-bearded man was pointed out to him. Mr.
Dana looked at him for a few minutes and then said to himself, "He has a
fine head; but he is not the man who could write 'Thanatopsis'" So
without speaking to him he returned to his office.
Mr. Philips, still full of enthusiasm, soon had an interview with Dr.
Bryant, and learned the truth in regard to the authorship of the poem.
It was printed in the next issue of the _North American Review_. It was
the first great poem ever produced in America; it was the work of a
young man not eighteen years of age, and it is without doubt the
greatest poem ever written by one so young. But let us read it.
THANATOPSIS
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
Comes a still voice:
Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.