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To find the long-hair'd mermaidens; or, hard by icy


To wrestle with the sea-serpent upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line;

And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,

Through sable sea and breakers white, the giant game to play

But shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave— A fisher's joy is to destroy, thine office is to save.

O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but under


Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band,

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,

With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,

Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea!

Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand,

To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father


Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave,

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave-Or, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly


Honour him for their memory whose bones he grows


(By permission of the Author.)



"And Echo caught faintly the sound as it fell."-Byron.


"O, Echo! I am very sad

Though p'rhaps, in all the county,
There's no one's more cause to be glad,
And grateful for God's bounty!
But when the poor beset my path-
Instead of words of honey,
Should I not, rather in my wrath,
Display some parsimony?"

Echo: "Display some purse o' money!'

"They Fortune bitterly condemn,

Who on them seldom chucks her eye!
But say, should I give ought to them,
Because I find their luck's awry ?"
Echo: "Find their luxury!"

"You mean that I should from my store,
Assist their humbler station?

Should love them, help their lot? nay, more,
Be moved to adoration?"

Echo: "Be moved to add a ration!"

They say they're hungry-thirsty-poor-
That they for beds must litters make!
But they've of life some sweets, I'm sure-
They seldom do their bitters take!"
Echo: " They seldom do their bit o' steak!
Then if they're cold, what's that to me?
I act as common sense acts:-
Send coals? do works of charity—
And carry out intense acts?”
Echo: " Carry out in ten sacks!"

Whilst I my tea sip-on their knees
They plead, say food's a rarity!

But what should I do-at my ease-
But gloat o'er my prosperity ?"
Echo: "Spare a tea!"

"A dinner, too, p'rhaps? meat and birds?
Why, I'd my flight to Mecca wing,

Ere I'd carve fowls! you mock

my words! You do but give an echoing?"

Echo: "Do but give a neck or wing!"

"If men, reduced from fortune's state,
Endure a gaol's probation,

Should I the anger smooth of fate—
And stop the detestation?"

Echo: "Stop the Debtors' Station!"
"What, seek their prison, and dispense
A salve to heal each sore?

And show them, under Providence,
The way to hope and adore?"

Echo "The way to open a door!"

"A wealthy and a prudent man,
Misfortune seldom quickly fears,
Fate seems to say, 'I like your plan,—
And shall have your cycle of years


Echo: "You shall have your sickly fears!" "Should I help those whose envious eyes Grudge me my better living?

And pardon those who me despise

And ever be for giving?"

Echo: "Ever be forgiving!"




[Mr. Bryant was born at Cummington, Massachusetts, U.S.A., on the 3rd of November, 1794. He is the father of the American poets, and was the first among them to establish a widely-spread reputation. While, however, we freely admit that the melodious

flow of his verse, and the vigour and compactness of his language, prove him a perfect master of his art, his thoughts and his style bear evidence that it was from the study of the best English writers that his soul was attuned to song. What we look for in vain among most of the poets of America is individuality of thought and expression, something that has its counterpart in nature, and is not the result of a skilful adaptation of the old machinery, however ingenious and complicated it may be. It is precisely this individuality that makes Longfellow the most popular and most appreciated of the American poets in this country; he is the least like any of our own.

Bryant was brought up for the bar, and followed his profession from 1815 to 1825. In the latter year he married and removed to New York, where he became one of the editors of the "New York Monthly Review." In 1832 he published a complete edition of his poems, and a copy of it reaching Washington Irving, who was then in London, he obtained for it re-publication in this country. Mr. Bryant visited Europe in 1834. Since 1836 his time has been chiefly occupied by his duties as editor of the "New York Evening Post."]

FAIR insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out,
And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing,
Does murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,

In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing,
And tell how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,

Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint; Thou gettest many a brush, and many a curse,

For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint:
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honour of so proud a birth-
Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;
For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,

The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy.

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,

And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong,

Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,
Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along;
The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence,

Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odours met thy sense,

They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway-
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed,
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy veils, like stars thro' mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to touch an anchorite!
What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain;
Thou art a wayward being-well—
—come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What sayst thou, slanderer !-rouge makes thee sick?
And China bloom at best is sorry food?

And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood? Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crimeBut shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch;
To worship, not approach, that radiant white;
And well might sudden vengeance light on such

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired,
Murmured thy adoration, and retired.

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