To him who in the love of Nature holds Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, Lines by Halleck, in his poem, "The Recorder." And, lost each human trace, surrendering up To be a brother to the insensible rock Yet not to thine eternal resting-place That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes So live, that when thy summons comes to join There is a Power whose care Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 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. JUNE I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round; And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain turf should break. A cell within the frozen mould, A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it rolled, While fierce the tempests beat- Earth green beneath the feet, There through the long, long summer hours And thick young herbs and groups of flowers The oriole should build and tell Should rest him there, and there be heard Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around I know, I know I should not see Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom, Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, The twilight of the trees and rocks Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene TO THE EVENING WIND. Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth, into the gathering shade; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone; That they who near the churchyard willows stray, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls that passed away, Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, And gone into the boundless heaven again.* The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And softly part his curtains to allow Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; This stanza is not included in the editions of Mr. Bryant's Poems. It appeared in The Poets of America," published by Mr. John Keese, and illustrated by Chapman. The stanza is said to have been written at Mr. Keese's suggestion, to supply what is certainly an appropriate addition in keeping with the sentiment of the piece. Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. BONG OF MARION'S MEN. Our band is few, but true and tried, When Marion's name is told. As seamen know the sea. Wo to the English soldiery That little dread us near! And hear the tramp of thousands Then sweet the hour that brings release We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, And woodland flowers are gathered On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. That lifts their tossing manes. Grave men there are by broad Santee, For Marion are their prayers. THE BATTLE-FIELD. Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave- Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry, Oh, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou Through weary day and weary year. 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. The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; When they who helped thee flee in fear, 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 pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. THE LAND OF DREAMS. A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams, With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, And weltering oceans and trailing streams, That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. But over its shadowy border flow Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, And the nearer mountains catch the glow, And flowers in the nearer fields are born. The souls of the happy dead repair, From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, And walk in the fainter glory there, With the souls of the living hand in hand. One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, From eyes that open on earth no moreOne warning word from a voice once dearHow they rise in the memory o'er and o'er! Far off from those huils that shine with day, And fields that bloom in the heavenly gules, The Land of Dreams goes stretching away To dimmer mountains and darker vales. There lie the chambers of guilty delight, There walk the spectres of guilty fear, And soft low voices, that float through the night, Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower, Scarce weaned from the love of childish play! The tears on whose checks are but the shower O keep where that beam of Paradise falls, And only wander where thou may'st meet The blessed ones from its shining walls. So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, With love and peace to this world of strife; And the light that over its border streams Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Robert of Lincoln is gaily drest, 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, 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. 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! Soon as the little ones chip the shell 190 CYCLOPEDIA OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Summer wanes; the children are grown; When you can pipe that merry old strain, 1855. Chee, chee, chee. CORN-SHUCKING IN SOUTH CAROLINA-FROM THE LETTERS OF A TRAVELLER. BARNWELL District, South Carolina, March 29,1843. But you must hear of the corn-shucking. The one at which I was present was given on purpose that I might witness the humors of the Carolina negroes. A huge fire of light-wood was made near the cornhouse. Light-wood is the wood of the long-leaved pine, and is so called, not because it is light, for it is almost the heaviest wood in the world, but because it gives more light than any other fuel. In clearing land, the pines are girdled and suffered to stand: the outer portion of the wood decays and falls off; the inner part, which is saturated with turpentine, remains upright for years, and constitutes the planWhen a supply is wanted, ter's provision of fuel. one of these dead trunks is felled by the axe. The abundance of light-wood is one of the boasts of South Carolina. Wherever you are, if you happen to be chilly, you may have a fire extempore; a bit of light wood and a coal give you a bright blaze and a strong heat in an instant. The negroes make fires of it in the fields where they work; and, when the mornings are wet and chilly, in the pens where they are milkAt a plantation, where I passed a ing the cows. frosty night, I saw fires in a small inclosure, and was told by the lady of the house that she had ordered them to be made to warm the cattle. The light-wood-fire was made, and the negroes dropped in from the neighboring plantations, singing The driver of the plantation, a coloras they came. ed man, brought out baskets of corn in the husk, and piled it in a heap; and the negroes began to strip the husks from the ears, singing with great glee as they worked, keeping time to the music, and now and then throwing in a joke and an extravagant burst of laughter. The songs were generally of a comic character; but one of them was set to a singularly wild and plaintive air, which some of our musicians would do well to reduce to notation. These are the words: I'm goin' away to Georgia, Oh hollow! De cooter is de boatman. John John Crow. De red-bird de soger. De mocking-bird de lawyer. De alligator sawyer John John Crow. The alligator's back is furnished with a toothed ridge, like the edge of a saw, which explains the last line. When the work of the evening was over the ne groes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. One of them took his place as musician, whistling, and beating time with two sticks upon the floor. Several of the men came forward and executed various dances, capering, prancing, and drumming with heel and toe upon the floor, with astonishing agility and perseverance, though all of them had performed their daily tasks and had worked all the evening, and some had walked from four to seven miles to attend From the dances a transition the corn-shucking. was made to a mock military parade, a sort of burlesque of our militia trainings, in which the words of command and the evolutions were extremely ludicrous. It became necessary for the commander to make a speech, and confessing his incapacity for public speaking, he called upon a huge black man named Toby to address the company in his stead. Toby, a man of powerful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto stood leaning against the wall, looking upon the frolic with an air of superiority. He consented, came forward, demanded a bit of paper to hold in It was evihis hand, and harangued the soldiery. dent that Toby had listened to stump-speeches in his day. He spoke of " de majority of Sous Carolina," de honor of ole Ba'nde interests of de state," well district," and these phrases he connected by various expletives, and sounds of which we could make nothing. At length he began to falter, when the captain with admirable presence of mind came to his relief, and interrupted and closed the harangue with an hurrah from the company. Toby was allowed by all the spectators, black and white, to have made an excellent speech. 66 JOHN HOWARD BRYANT, the brother of the preceding, who has become known by his verses, chiefly descriptive of nature, was born at Cummington, July 22, 1807. His first poem, entitled My Native Village, appeared in 1826, in his brother's periodical, The United States Review. Having accomplished himself in various studies, in 1831 he emigrated to Illinois, where he established himself as a farmer, and where he has |