30. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 1. William Cullen Bryant was born in Cummington, Mass., in 1794. His father, who was a practicing physician, was a man of more than ordinary intelligence and sagacity. At ten years of age the son wrote and declaimed in school a piece in verse. 2. "Thanatopsis," the most remarkable poem ever composed at an early age, was written by Bryant in his eighteenth year. His father showed it to a lady who was qualified to judge of such things, saying simply, "Here are some lines that William has been writing." The lady read the poem, raised her eyes to the father's face, and burst out weeping, in which the father, a somewhat stern and silent man, was not ashamed to join. 3. Bryant studied law, was admitted to the bar, and after practicing for ten years, abandoned the profession for literary and editorial pursuits. He removed to New York city, and for many years was connected with the Evening Post. He wrote much in prose, but will be remembered by his poetry alone. 4. His life covers the entire history of true American literature, and he himself was one of its pioneers. He was the poet of the lakes, rivers, forests, mountains, and prairies of his own country. He described what he himself saw, and his emotions were always genuine. Simplicity, clearness, and vigor mark his poetry. His verse will never be forgotten so long as all grand and beautiful objects in nature stir the heart of man. 5. In 1874, on his eightieth birthday, the city of New York presented to him, as a token of appreciation, a beautiful and costly silver vase. Bryant died in New York, in 1878, at the age of eighty-four, and the wish that he had expressed in the beautiful poem "June,”—that he might be buried in that month,-was literally fulfilled. 31. THE WINDS. 1. Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the áir, Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. 2. What change is this! Ye take the cataract's sound; 3. The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, The harvest field becomes a river's bed; And torrents tumble from the hills around; 4. Ye dart upon the deep; and straight is heard Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. Sèe! to the breaking mast the sailor clings; Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, And take the mountain billow on your wings, 5. Why rage ye thùs?-no strife for liberty Has made you mád; no tyrant, strong through féar, Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them frée, And rushed into the unmeasured átmosphere; For ye were born in freedom where ye blow; Free o'er the mighty deep to cóme and gò; Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow, Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. 6. O ye wild winds! a mightier Power than yours 7. Yet oh when that wronged Spirit of our race. Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn cháins, And leap in freedom from his prison-place, Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful pláins, Let him not ríse, like these mad winds of áir, To waste the loveliness that time could spáre, To fill the earth with wóe, and blot her fair Unconscious bréast with blood from húman véins. 8. But may he like the spring-time come abroad, The unsealed springs come spouting up to light; Flowers start from their dark prisons at his fèet, The woods, long dúmb, awake to hymnings sweet; And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost méet, Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient nìght. BRYANT. 32. TO A WATER-FOWL. 1. Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? 2. Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. 3. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 4. There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast- Lone wandering, but not lost. 5. All day thy wings have fanned, At this far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 6. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 7. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 8. 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. 7 BRYANT. WRITTEN SPELLING.-TROUBLESOME WORDS. When ei or ie has the sound of long e after c, the e comes first; in other cases, the i comes first. The e comes first. The i comes first. |