Part 7
=August.= Reign, thou Fire-month! Neither shalt thou destroy the earth which frosts and ice could not destroy. The vines droop, the trees stagger, but every night the dew pities them. This is the rejoicing month for joyful insects, the most populous and the happiest month. The air is resonant of insect orchestras, each one carrying his part in nature’s grand harmony. August, thou art the ripeness of the year, the glowing center of the great circle.
=September.= There are thoughts in thy heart of death. Thou art doing a secret work, and heaping up treasures for another year. The unborn infant-buds which thou art tending are more than all the living leaves. Thy robes are luxuriant, but worn with softened pride. More dear, less beautiful than June, thou art the heart’s month. Not till the heats of summer are gone, while all its growths remain, do we know the fullness of life. Thy hands are stretched out, and clasp the glowing palm of August, and the fruit-smelling hand of October. Thou dividest them asunder, and art thyself molded of them both.
=October.= Orchard of the year! Bend thy boughs to the earth, redolent of glowing fruit! Ripened seeds shake in their pods. Apples drop in the stillest hours. Leaves begin to let go when no wind is out, and swing in long waverings to the earth, which they touch without sound, and lie looking up, till winds rake them and heap them in fence-corners. When the gales come through the trees, the yellow leaves trail, like sparks at night behind the flying engine. The woods are thinner, so that we can see the heavens plainer, as we lie dreaming on the yet warm moss by the singing spring. The days are calm. The nights are tranquil. The year’s work is done. She walks in gorgeous apparel, looking upon her long labor, and her serene eye saith, “It is good.”
=November.= Patient watcher, thou art asking to lay down thy tasks. Life to thee, now, is only a task accomplished. In the night-time thou liest down, and the messengers of winter deck thee with hoar-frosts for thy burial. The morning looks upon thy jewels, and they perish while it gazes. Wilt thou not come, O December?
=December.= Silently the month advances. There is nothing to destroy, but much to bury. Bury, then, thou snow, that slumberously fallest through the still air, the hedgerows of leaves! Muffle thy cold wool about the feet of shivering trees! Bury all that the year hath known, and let thy brilliant stars, that never shine as they do in thy frostiest nights, behold the work! But know, O month of destruction, that in thy constellation is set that Star whose rising is the sign, for evermore, that there is life in death! Thou art the month of resurrection. In thee the Christ came. Every star that looks down upon thy labor and toil of burial knows that all things shall come forth again. Storms shall sob themselves to sleep. Silence shall find a voice. Death shall live, Life shall rejoice, Winter shall break forth and blossom into Spring, Spring shall put on her glorious apparel and be called Summer. It is life! it is life! through the whole year!
TWO EPITAPHS.
[The following can be read by a class in concert, or by two sections of a class. It is a fine exercise in transition from soft to loud Force, slow to quick Time, low to high Pitch, minor to major Inflection.]
I.
“Think of Death!” the grave-stones say,— “Peace to Life’s mad striving!”
II.
But the church-yard daisies,—“Nay, Think of Living!”
“Think of Life!” the sunbeams say, O’er the dial flying;
I.
But the slanting shadows,—“Nay, Think of Dying!”
“Think of Death!” the night birds say, On the storm-blast driving;
II.
But the building swallows,—“Nay, Think of Living!”
“Think of Life!” the broad winds say, Through the old trees sighing;
I.
But the whirling leaf-dance,—“Nay, Think of Dying!”
“Think of Death!” the sad bells say, Fateful record giving;
II.
Clash the merry Yule-peal,—“Nay, Think of Living!”
_Concert._ Dying, Living, glad or loath, On God’s Rood relying; Pray He fit us all for both— Living, Dying!
_From the German._
THE CATARACT OF LODORE.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
[_For Solo and Concert Recitation._]
[Variations in Force, Time, Pitch, Quality, Staccato and Legato effect, to be made according to the idea expressed by the different words.]
_Solo._
“How does the water come down at Lodore?” My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time, And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon at the word There first came one daughter, And then came another To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water came down at Lodore, So I told them in rhyme, for of rhymes I had store, And ’twas in my vocation For their recreation, That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate to them and the King.
_Solo._
From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; Through moss and through brake It runs and it creeps For a while till it sleeps In its own little lake; It runs through the reeds and away it proceeds Through meadow and glade, in sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, among crags in its flurry Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry! The cataract strong then plunges along, Striking and raging as if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among.
_Concert._
Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting,—
_Solo._
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
_Concert._
And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And moaning and groaning. And falling and brawling and sprawling, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering. And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and furling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and crashing—
_Solo._
And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending All at once, and all o’er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
CAVALRY SONG.
EDMUND C. STEDMAN.
[_For Boys’ Recitation._]
I.
Our good steeds snuff the winter air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman’s fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabers jingle.
HALT!
Each carbine send its whizzing ball; Now cling! clang! forward, all, Into the fight!
II.
Dash on beneath the smoking dome; Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to Heaven. No thoughts of home; The guidons that we bear are dearer.
CHARGE!
Cling! clang! forward, all! Heaven help those whose horses fall! Cut left and right!
III.
They flee before our fierce attack! They fall! they spread in broken surges. Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges.
WHEEL!
The bugles sound the swift recall; Cling! clang! backward, all! Home, and good-night!
RECITATIONS FOR MUSIC.
THE ANGELUS.
FRANCES L. MACE.
[_For pianissimo musical accompaniment._]
Ring soft across the dying day, Angelus! Across the amber-tinted bay, The meadow flushed with sunset ray,— Ring out, and float, and melt away, Angelus.
The day of toil seems long ago, Angelus; While through the deepening vesper glow, Far up where holy lilies blow, Thy beckoning bell-notes rise and flow, Angelus.
Through dazzling curtains of the west, Angelus! We see a shrine in roses dressed, And lifted high in vision blest, Our very heart-throb is confessed, Angelus.
Oh, has an angel touched the bell, Angelus? For now upon its parting swell All sorrow seems to sing farewell, There falls a peace no words can tell, Angelus!
HOPE’S SONG.
HELEN M. WINSLOW.
The golden dreams of youth Assume a guise of truth Which age keeps never, For Hope’s voice singeth ever, “Oh, youth and strong endeavor, Can win the highest good forever.”
Love’s subtle intuition Divines life’s glad fruition, Distrusting never; And sweetly Hope sings ever, “True love and sweet endeavor Shall hold the highest good forever.”
Love’s sacred tryst is broken, Heart-breaking words are spoken Her bonds to sever; But still Hope singeth ever, “Brave heart and strong endeavor Must find the highest good forever.”
Pale hands are crossed in death; Gone is the quivering breath; And still a low voice never Stops echoing, echoing ever, “Brave heart and strong endeavor Have won the highest good forever.”
THE SUNRISE NEVER FAILED US YET.
MRS. CELIA THAXTER.
Upon the sadness of the sea The sunset broods regretfully; From the far, lonely spaces, slow Withdraws the wistful after-glow.
So out of life the splendor dies; So darken all the happy skies; So gathers twilight, cold and stern— But overhead the planets burn.
And up the east another day Shall chase the bitter dark away; What though our eyes with tears be wet? The sunrise never failed us yet!
The blush of dawn may yet restore Our light, and hope, and joy, once more. Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget That sunrise never failed us yet!
A WINTER SONG.
[With light, running _staccato_ and _legato_ accompaniments.]
Oh, summer has the roses And the laughing, light south wind, And the merry meadows lined With dewy, dancing posies; But winter has the sprites And the witching frosty nights.
Oh, summer has the splendor Of the corn-fields wide and deep, Where the scarlet poppies sleep And wary shadows wander; But winter fields are rare With diamonds everywhere.
Oh, summer has the wild bees, And the ringing, singing note In the robin’s tuneful throat, And the leaf-talk in the trees; But winter has the chime Of the merry Christmas time.
Oh, summer has the luster Of the sunbeams warm and bright, And rains that fall at night Where reeds and lilies cluster; But deep in winter’s snow The fires of Christmas glow.
_St. Nicholas._
THE CONCERT REHEARSAL.
WOLSTAN DIXEY.
Oh, it was a musical old Beetle! And oh, it was a honey-throated Bee! But the dandified young Hopper, He couldn’t sing it proper, And the Cricket—out of tune was he.
They sung and they sung, And the harebells swung A tinkling _obligato_ in the breeze; While the Beetle, singing-master, Tried to make them sing it faster, By patting off the _tempo_ on his knees.
And oh! it was a Robin overheard them, Who happened out a-walking in the glade, And he laughed in every feather When they tried to sing together At the funny little noises that they made.
He listened and he listened, And his eyes they fairly glistened As the Bee so sweetly bumbled out the air; But the Cricket struck another, And the Robin thought he’d smother Trying not to let them know that he was there.
Then oh, the Bee declared that “It was shameful!” And angrily sipped honey from a comb; “She was ruining her throat And wouldn’t sing another note Until the others studied it at home!”
The Cricket said that he Never _could_ keep in the key When the wind was blowing that way from the south, And young Hopper made excuses In reply to these abuses, That he had too much molasses in his mouth.
Then oh! the beetle-headed old conductor Arose and made a few remarks in turn; “The soprano is so vicious And affairs so unpropitious, The best thing we can do is to adjourn.
“Taking everything together, The molasses and the weather, And the fact that we can’t any of us sing, There is quite sufficient reason That we wait another season And postpone our little concert till the spring!”
ROCK OF AGES.
[The quoted words can be either sung or recited. The melody should be played through once before the beginning of the recitation. The accompaniment, _pianissimo_, should run through the entire poem, being definite, and _piano_ only on the quoted lines.]
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,” Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, Fell the words unconsciously From her girlish, gleeful tongue; Sang as little children sing; Sang as sing the birds in June; Fell the words like light leaves down On the current of the tune— “Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.”
“Let me hide myself in Thee,”— Felt her soul no need to hide; Sweet the song as song could be, And she had no thought beside. All the words unheedingly Fell from lips untouched by care, Dreaming not that they might be On some other lips a prayer— “Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.”
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,” ’Twas a woman sung them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully; Every word her heart did know. Rose the song, as a storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wings the air; Every note with sorrow stirred— Every syllable a prayer— “Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.”
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,” Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly— Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim. “Let me hide myself in Thee,” Trembling though the voice and low, Rose the sweet strain peacefully Like a river in its flow. Sang as only they can sing Who life’s thorny paths have passed; Sang as only they can sing Who behold the promised rest— “Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.”
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,” Sung above a coffin-lid; Underneath all restfully All life’s joys and sorrows hid. Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul, Nevermore, from wind or tide, Nevermore from billows’ roll Wilt thou need thyself to hide. Could the sightless, sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer— Still, aye still, the words would be, “Let me hide myself in Thee.”
POETS’ BIRTHDAYS.
THE BLESSING OF THE POETS.—I think it a very great boon which Heaven bestows on any nation when it sends a real poet among the people, like Longfellow or Whittier. I can’t understand why we take the gift so coldly. In some of the poems of Whittier you can almost hear the rustling of the leaves of the old family Bible, and in Longfellow’s lines you can listen to the rain on your roof, as you heard it while lying in your chamber in your childhood. It really seems to me that the whole poetic atmosphere of our time has been filled with a new fragrance by Whittier and Longfellow. They have taught us to prize afresh the loftiest virtues and the lowliest charities. Well may they indeed be called “Our Poets of the Household.” You may call them primary or secondary, if you choose; but their motive-power remains unquenchable and unchallengeable, and their words are graven in the hearts all over the human world.—JAMES T. FIELDS.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Born Nov. 3, 1794. Died June 12, 1878.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.
Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless The heart,—its teachers and its joy,— As mothers blend with their caress Lessons of truth and gentleness And virtue for the listening boy. Spring’s lovelier flowers for many a day Have blossomed on his wandering way; Beings of beauty and decay, They slumber in their autumn tomb; But those that graced his own Green River And wreathed the lattice of his home, Charmed by his song from mortal doom, Bloom on, and will bloom on forever.
* * * * *
Bryant had a wonderful memory. His familiarity with the English poets was such that when at sea, where he was always too ill to read much, he would beguile the time by reciting page after page from favorite poems. He assured me that however long the voyage, he had never exhausted his resources. He was scarcely less familiar with the languages and literatures of Germany, France and Spain, Greece and Rome. He spoke all living languages except the Greek with facility and correctness.—JOHN BIGELOW.
* * * * *
The name of Bryant cannot be mentioned by any friend to American letters without respect as well as admiration. The hold that he has on the profoundest feelings of his countrymen is to be referred to the genuineness, delicacy, depth, and purity of his sentiment. He is so genuine that he testifies to nothing in scenery or human life of which he has not had a direct personal consciousness. He follows the primitive bias of his nature rather than the caprices of fancy. His compositions always leave the impression of having been born, not manufactured or made.—EDWIN P. WHIPPLE.
* * * * *
It is the glory of this man that his character outshone even his great talent and his large fame. Distinguished equally for his native gifts and his consummate culture, his poetic inspiration and his exquisite art, he is honored and loved to-day even more for his stainless purity of life, his unswerving rectitude of will, his devotion to the higher interests of his race, his unfeigned patriotism, and his broad humanity.—REV. HENRY W. BELLOWS.
* * * * *
When Cooper died, the restless city paused to hear Bryant’s words of praise and friendship. When Irving followed Cooper, all hearts turned to Bryant. Now Bryant has followed Cooper and Irving, the last of that early triumvirate of American literature. The broad and simple outline of his character and career had become universally familiar like a mountain or the sea. A patriarch of our literature, the oldest of our poets, he felt the magic of human sympathy, the impulse of his country, the political genius of his race, and was a public political leader.—GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.
A BRYANT ALPHABET.
Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done; High towards the star-lit sky Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun.
_Hymn to the North Star._
Beneath the forest’s skirt I rest, Whose branching pines rise dark and high, And hear the breezes of the West Among the thread-like foliage sigh.
_The West Wind._
Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men; And as its grateful odors met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.
_To a Mosquito._
Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air; And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God, in the thunder-cloud!
_The Hurricane._
Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits.
_The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus._
Far back in the ages, The plow with wreaths was crowned; The hands of kings and sages Entwined the chaplet round.
_Ode for an Agricultural Celebration._
Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, To weave the dance that measures the years; Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent To the furthest wall of the firmament.
_Song of the Stars._
Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock; While those who seek to slay thy children, hold Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold.
_Hymn of the Waldenses._
I know where the timid fawn abides In the depths of the shaded dell, Where the leaves are broad, and the thicket hides From the eye of the hunter well.
_An Indian Story._
Journeying, in long serenity, away In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee!
_October._
Knit they the gentle ties which long These Sister States were proud to wear, And forged the kindly links so strong For idle hands in sport to tear?
_Not Yet._
Lament who will, in fruitless tears, The speed with which our moments fly; I sigh not over vanished years, But watch the years that hasten by.
_The Lapse of Time._
Might but a little part, A wandering breath, of that high melody Descend into my heart, And change it till it be Transformed and swallowed up, O love, in thee!
_The Life of the Blessed._
Not from the sands or cloven rocks, Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow; Nor earth, within her bosom, locks Thy dark unfathomed wells below.
_To the River Arve._
Oh, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep.
“_Blessed are they that Mourn._”
Peace to the just man’s memory; let it grow Greener with years, and blossom through the flight Of ages.
_The Ages._
——the great deep Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air Above a furnace.
_Sella._
Raise, then, the hymn to Death. Deliverer! God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed And crush the oppressor.
_Hymn to Death._
Seek’st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?
_To a Waterfall._
Thou unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.
_The Past._
Upon the mountain’s distant head With trackless snows forever white, Where all is still, and cold, and dead, Late shines the day’s departing light.
“_Upon the Mountain’s Distant Head._”
Violets spring in the soft May shower; There, in the summer breezes, wave Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.
_The Maiden’s Sorrow._
Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers Offered where crowds in reverent worship come Or softly breathed amid the tender cares And loving inmates of thy quiet home.
_The Life that Is._
Alexis calls me cruel; The rifted crags that hold The gathered ice of winter, He says, are not more cold.
_Song from the Spanish._
Yet these sweet sounds of the early season And these fair sights of its sunny days, Are only sweet when we fondly listen, And only fair when we fondly gaze.
_An Invitation to the Country._
Leave Zelinda altogether, Whom thou leavest oft and long, And in the life thou lovest Forget whom thou dost wrong.
_The Alcayde of Molina._
THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER.
On my cornice linger the ripe, black grapes ungathered; Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drop the heavy fruit of the tall black walnut tree.
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green, Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.
Like this kindly season may life’s decline come o’er me; Past is manhood’s summer, the frosty months are here; Yet be genial airs, and a pleasant sunshine left me, Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year.
THE NIGHT JOURNEY OF A RIVER.