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sis," 1817.

probably the most remarkable instance of precocity on record. It seems rather a pity, however, that it should be so considered. For it is a great poem, aside from any reference to the time of its composition. It was published in the "North American "ThanatopReview" in September, 1817. There have been a good many dates suggested for the birth of American poetry. Probably no one will ever be agreed upon; for poetry is not born at any one place at any one time, any more than violets. Some morning in the spring we wake up and the violets are here; but it would not be easy to tell on what day and in what place the first violet bloomed. So the American people woke up about that time and found that real poetry was being written. Though we cannot certainly call this the birthday of American poetry, it is a good date to remember. That September, 1817, issue of the "North American Review" marks a very important epoch in our Literature; for it contained the two poems by Bryant which were first published, "Thanatopsis" and "The Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood." In 1825 Bryant went to New York, and for a while was connected with a series of unsuccessful magazines. In his thirtysecond year he became connected with the New York Evening Post," and thus began his life work.

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For

fifty years his was one of the influential pens in the country. Perhaps we should have had more poetry if Bryant had not been so successful a journalist. But it is more probable that the real poetry in a man's soul will express itself, whatever his circumstances;

and what we should have gained in quantity we might have lost in quality had Bryant written more. His personality was, if possible, even more influential than his pen. For many years Bryant might well have been called New York's chief citizen. He was prominent on many social and ceremonial occasions. His venerable head, with its abundant snow-white beard, was often conspicuous and always honored. It was just after delivering an address at the dedication of a monument to the Italian patriot and reformer Mazzini that he fell on the steps of a friend's house and received injuries from the effects of which, on June 12, 1878, he died.

It cannot be said that there is any marked development in Bryant's poetry. He struck a high note at the beginning, and he sustained it to the end. The verse of the boy of eighteen and that of the man of eighty show substantially the same characteristics. We wish there were more of it. Considering the length of his life and the greatness of his mind and character, the product is sadly small. It is for the most part "meditative." He loves nature in her moods of quiet, and interprets her teaching. The opening lines of "Thanatopsis"—

To him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language,

characterize him, except that it might be said his interpretation of nature lacks variety. Bryant is without passion. There is feeling in his work; but the feeling is calm and subdued. He teaches a high

His diction and

ideal of living and a serene trust. his thought are alike pure. Like all great poets, he is profoundly religious; but it is the religion of confidence and peace, rather than of question, struggle, or consecration. His mastery of form is very perfect. He has taken two of the most difficult of English forms, blank verse and the Spenserian stanza, and has handled them with consummate skill. We shall find no better examples for the study of these forms in our Literature. "Thanatopsis" was written in blank verse; and when in his old age he made a translation of the "Iliad" and "Odyssey" into English, he used the same form. I will call attention to some of the special excellences of his first great poem.

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
5 And éloquence 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

ΙΟ Over thy spirit, and sad images

15

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

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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 30 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 35 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun- - the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between ;

40 The venerable woods - rivers that move

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In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, —

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. - Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,

Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there:

And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep - the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw

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