Chapter 1

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To My Mother.

THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS

EDITED BY FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES

_NEW REVISED EDITION_

BOSTON L.C. PAGE AND COMPANY (INCORPORATED) MDCCCXCIX

Colonial Press: Electrotyped and Printed by C.H. Simonds & Co. Boston, Mass., U.S.A.

PREFACE.

The numerous collections of American verse share, I think, one fault in common: they include too much. Whether this has been a bid for popularity, a concession to Philistia, I cannot say; but the fact remains that all anthologies of American poetry are, so far as I know, more or less uncritical. The aim of the present book is different. In no case has a poem been included because it is widely known. The purpose of this compilation is solely that of preserving, in attractive and permanent form, about one hundred and fifty of the best lyrics of America.

I am quite aware of the danger attending such exacting honor-rolls. At best, an editor's judgment is only personal, and the realization of this fact gives me no small diffidence in attempting to decide what American lyrics are best worthy of preservation. That every reader of the "American Treasury" will find some favorite poem omitted, there can be little doubt. But the effort made in this book towards a careful estimate of our lyrical poetry is at any rate, I feel sure, in a good direction.

There appear in the index of Mr. Stedman's "Poets of America" the names of over three hundred native writers. American verse in the last half century has been extraordinarily prolific. It would seem that the time has come, in the course of our national literature, for proving all things and holding fast that which is good.

The fact that the title of this compilation instantly calls to mind that of Mr. Palgrave's scholarly collection of English lyrics need not prove a disadvantage to the book if the purpose which led to the choice of name is understood. The verse of a single century produced in a new country should not be expected to equal the poetic wealth of an old and intellectual nation. But if American poetry cannot hope to rival the poetry of the mother country, it may at least be compared with it; and the fact of such a comparative point of view will aid rather than hinder the student of our native poetry in estimating its value.

American verse has suffered at the hands both of its admirers and its enemies. Injudicious praise, no less than supercilious contempt, has reacted unfavorably on the fame of our poets. Again and again has some minor versifier been hailed as the "American Keats" or the "American Burns." Really excellent poets, though distinctly poets of second rank, have been elevated amid the blare of critical trumpets to the company of Wordsworth and Milton. All this is unprofitable and silly. But not much better is the attitude of certain critics who patronize everything in the English language which has been written outside of England. Though America has added--leaving Poe out of account--no distinctly new notes to English poetry, it has added certainly not a few true ones. A nation need never apologize for its literature when it has produced such lyrics--to go no further--as "On a Bust of Dante," "Ichabod," "The Chambered Nautilus," and the "Waterfowl."

My method of arrangement is roughly chronological. The First Book, which is shorter than the others, might be called the book of Bryant; the Second, of Longfellow; and the Third, of Aldrich. Since the periods must of course overlap, this division of the poems can be at most only suggestive.

I have made it no part of my design to grant to the better known poets a larger number of lyrics than those given later and younger men. I have paid no regard to that purely conventional idea of proportion, that would assign to five or six writers a dozen selections each, and to another set of poets, in proportion to their popular fame, half that number. We can safely leave the final adjustment of all rival claims to Time, the best critic; in the meanwhile having the more modest aim of selecting, irrespective of contemporary judgments, whatever is best suited to our purpose.

A word more should be said about the title. I have not interpreted the term lyric so rigidly as to exclude sonnets, ballads, elegiac verse, or even pieces of almost pure description. If I had held to the strictest sense of lyric, this book would never have been compiled; for I suspect nothing will strike the reader more forcibly than the fact that, despite the excellence of the poems included, there is a notable lack of unconsciousness--of pure singing quality. Such things as Pinkney's "Health" and Holmes's "Old Ironsides" are the exception. The poems are composed cleverly, but they do not quite sing themselves to their own music. The best American verse, while not insincere, is seldom wholly spontaneous. This is not saying that much spontaneous verse has not been written in this country; much has been, but the singer's voice has too often been uncultivated, and the product inartistic.

The names of many popular poets are entirely omitted. In no case, however, was this probably due to oversight. I have gone over carefully a wide field of verse, not without finding much to admire, but never quite happening upon that final touch of successful achievement where art and inspiration join. I am especially sorry to leave unrepresented a writer--more imaginative, possibly, than any American poet except Poe--whose utter contempt for technique in the ordinary sense places him wholly outside my present purpose.

I wish to acknowledge various favors kindly shown by Professor C.T. Winchester, Professor Barrett Wendell, and Mr. H.E. Scudder. Thanks are also due Mr. T.B. Aldrich for the privilege of including the six poems from his pen, which were kindly selected for the book by the poet himself. The following firms deserve thanks for permitting the use of copyrighted poems:

_Houghton, Mifflin & Co.:_

Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Christopher Pearse Cranch, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Annie Adams Fields, Louise Imogen Guiney, Oliver Wendell Holmes, William Dean Howells, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell Lowell, Thomas William Parsons, John James Piatt, Lizette Woodworth Reese, Hiram Rich, Edward Rowland Sill, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Bayard Taylor, Henry David Thoreau, Maurice Thompson, John Greenleaf Whittier, George Edward Woodberry.

Selections from the works of the foregoing writers are included "by permission of and by special arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of the works of said authors."

_D. Appleton & Co.:_ Fitz-Greene Halleck, William Cullen Bryant.

_Lee & Shepard:_ Julia Ward Howe.

_Porter & Coates:_ Charles Fenno Hoffman.

_Roberts Brothers:_ Emily Dickinson, Helen Hunt Jackson, Louise Chandler Moulton.

_Copeland & Day:_ John Banister Tabb, Richard Hovey.

_W.A. Pond & Co.:_ Stephen Collins Foster.

_Clark & Maynard:_ Nathaniel Parker Willis.

_The Cassell Publishing Co.:_ John Boyle O'Reilly.

_The Century Co.:_ Richard Watson Gilder, James Whitcomb Riley (Poems in the _Century Magazine_).

_Estes & Lauriat:_ Lloyd Mifflin.

_Lamson & Wolffe:_ Bliss Carman.

_Charles Scribner's Sons:_ Henry Cuyler Bunner, Eugene Field, Sidney Lanier, Richard Henry Stoddard, Henry Van Dyke.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Absence of Little Wesley, The _J.W. Riley_ 280

After All _W. Winter_ 117

Aladdin _J.R. Lowell_ 128

Annabel Lee _E.A. Poe_ 10

Apart _J.J. Piatt_ 149

At Gibraltar _G.E. Woodberry_ 273

At Last _R.H. Stoddard_ 153

At Night _R.W. Gilder_ 217

Auspex _J.R. Lowell_ 192

Ballad _H.P. Spofford_ 202

Battle-field, The _W.C. Bryant_ 54

Battle-hymn of the Republic _I.W. Howe_ 108

Be Thou a Bird, My Soul _(?)_ 282

Bedouin Song _B. Taylor_ 85

Bereaved _J.W. Riley_ 263

Birds _R.H. Stoddard_ 193

Black Regiment, The _G.H. Boker_ 100

Bucket, The _S. Woodworth_ 8

Carolina _H. Timrod_ 104

Chambered Nautilus, The _O.W. Holmes_ 178

Chariot, The _E. Dickinson_ 264

Childhood _J.B. Tabb_ 230

City in the Sea, The _E.A. Poe_ 15

Concord Hymn _R.W. Emerson_ 74

Confided _J.B. Tabb_ 266

Coronation _H.H. Jackson_ 183

Crowded Street, The _W.C. Bryant_ 42

Day is Done, The _W. Longfellow_ 66

Days _R.W. Emerson_ 126

Death-bed, A _J. Aldrich_ 136

Destiny _T.B. Aldrich_ 210

Dirge for a Soldier _G.H. Boker_ 106

Discoverer, The _E.C. Stedman_ 150

Dutch Lullaby _E. Field_ 284

Eavesdropper, The _B. Carman_ 298

Evening Song _S. Lanier_ 215

Eve's Daughter _E.R. Sill_ 247

Fall of the Leaf, The _H.D. Thoreau_ 162

Farragut _W.T. Meredith_ 110

Fertility _M. Thompson_ 294

Fire of Driftwood, The _H.W. Longfellow_ 133

Flight, The _L. Mifflin_ 229

Flight of Youth, The _R.H. Stoddard_ 129

Fool's Prayer, The _E.R. Sill_ 205

Four Winds, The _C.H. Lüders_ 258

Future, The _E.R. Sill_ 219

Gondolieds _H.H. Jackson_ 155

Gravedigger, The _B. Carman_ 277

Haunted Palace _E.A. Poe_ 26

Health, A _E.C. Pinkney_ 12

Hebe _J.R. Lowell_ 64

He Made the Stars Also _L. Mifflin_ 257

Her Epitaph _T.W. Parsons_ 147

House of Death, The _L.C. Moulton_ 236

Humble-bee, The _R.W. Emerson_ 169

Hunting Song _R. Hovey_ 251

Ichabod _J.G. Whittier_ 69

In Absence _J.B. Tabb_ 267

In August _W.D. Howells_ 223

Indian Summer _E. Dickinson_ 265

In the Hospital _M.W. Howland_ 122

In the Twilight _J.R. Lowell_ 158

Israfel _E.A. Poe_ 21

Jerry an' Me _H. Rich_ 275

Katie _H. Timrod_ 140

Kings, The _L.I. Guiney_ 211

Last Leaf, The _O.W. Holmes_ 95

Little Boy Blue _E. Field_ 231

Maryland Yellow-throat, The _H. Van Dyke_ 287

Memory _T.B. Aldrich_ 241

Mood, A _T.B. Aldrich_ 242

"My Life is Like the Summer Rose" _R.H. Wilde_ 4

My Love _J.R. Lowell_ 142

My Maryland _J.R. Randall_ 113

My Playmate _J.G. Whittier_ 130

My Strawberry _H.H. Jackson_ 167

Nature _H.W. Longfellow_ 63

Nature _H.D. Thoreau_ 166

Negro Lullaby _P.L. Dunbar_ 225

Night _L. Mifflin_ 256

No More _B.F. Willson_ 197

"O Fairest of the Rural Maids" _W.C. Bryant_ 6

Old Ironsides _O.W. Holmes_ 76

Old Kentucky Home, The _S.C. Foster_ 98

On a Bust of Dante _T.W. Parsons_ 185

On an Intaglio Head of Minerva _T.B. Aldrich_ 248

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake _F.G. Halleck_ 36

On the Life-mask of Abraham Lincoln _R.W. Gilder_ 207

Opportunity _E.R. Sill_ 283

Pan in Wall Street _E.C. Stedman_ 188

Paradisi Gloria _T.W. Parsons_ 201

Parting _E. Dickinson_ 252

Port of Ships, The _C.H. Miller_ 199

Prescience _T.B. Aldrich_ 221

Raven, The _E.A. Poe_ 45

Return, The _L.F. Tooker_ 260

Rhodora, The _R.W. Emerson_ 165

Sea's Voice, The _W.P. Foster_ 271

Secret, The _G.E. Woodberry_ 290

Serenade, A _E.C. Pinkney_ 14

Sesostris _L. Mifflin_ 300

She Came and Went _J.R. Lowell_ 145

Sigh, A _H.P. Spofford_ 196

Silence of Love, The _G.E. Woodberry_ 289

Sir Humphrey Gilbert _H.W. Longfellow_ 71

Skipper Ireson's Ride _J.G. Whittier_ 87

Sleeper, The _E.A. Poe_ 57

Song _R.W. Gilder_ 208

Song _J. Shaw_ 3

Song _R.H. Stoddard_ 127

Song of the Camp, The _B. Taylor_ 119

Song of the Chattahoochee _S. Lanier_ 268

Sparkling and Bright _C.F. Hoffman_ 32

Stanzas _C.P. Cranch_ 181

Still in Thy Love I Trust _A.A. Fields_ 218

Strong as Death _H.C. Bunner_ 233

Summer Rain, The _H.D. Thoreau_ 172

Telling the Bees _J.G. Whittier_ 137

"Thalatta" _J.B. Brown_ 154

That Day You Came _L.W. Reese_ 224

Thought _H.H. Jackson_ 180

Tide Rises, the Tide Falls, The _H.W. Longfellow_ 161

To a Dead Woman _H.C. Bunner_ 209

To America _G.H. Boker_ 75

To a Waterfowl _W.C. Bryant_ 29

To a Young Girl Dying _T.W. Parsons_ 198

To England _G.H. Boker_ 79

To Helen _E.A. Poe_ 31

To One in Paradise _E.A. Poe_ 34

To the Dandelion _J.R. Lowell_ 175

To the Fringed Gentian _W.C. Bryant_ 40

To the Past _W.C. Bryant_ 18

Toujours Amour _E.C. Stedman_ 194

Triumph _H.C. Bunner_ 213

Tropical Morning at Sea, A _E.R. Sill_ 238

Under the Violets _O.W. Holmes_ 124

Unseen Spirits _N.P. Willis_ 24

Valley of Unrest, The _E.A. Poe_ 38

Veery, The _H. Van Dyke_ 296

Village Blacksmith, The _H.W. Longfellow_ 92

Way to Arcady, The _H.C. Bunner_ 243

When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan _T.B. Aldrich_ 253

Whip-poor-will, The _H. Van Dyke_ 291

White Jessamine, The _J.B. Tabb_ 235

Wild Honeysuckle, The _P. Freneau_ 1

Woman's Thought, A _R.W. Gilder_ 227

Woods that Bring the Sunset Near, The _R.W. Gilder_ 216

Wreck of the Hesperus, The _H.W. Longfellow_ 80

BOOK FIRST.

AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS

The Wild Honeysuckle.

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honey'd blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet; No roving foot shall crush thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; Thus quietly thy summer goes,-- Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died--nor were those flowers more gay-- The flowers that did in Eden bloom; Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews At first thy little being came; If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same; The space between is but an hour, The frail duration of a flower.

P. FRENEAU.

Song.

Who has robbed the ocean cave, To tinge thy lips with coral hue? Who from India's distant wave For thee those pearly treasures drew? Who from yonder orient sky Stole the morning of thine eye?

Thousand charms, thy form to deck, From sea, and earth, and air are torn; Roses bloom upon thy cheek, On thy breath their fragrance borne. Guard thy bosom from the day, Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth can ne'er impart; Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air, a heart. Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be, Take, oh, take that heart from me.

J. SHAW.

"My Life is Like the Summer Rose."

My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground--to die! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see,-- But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Its hold is frail,--its date is brief, Restless,--and soon to pass away! Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree,-- But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea,-- But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

R.H. WILDE.

"O Fairest of the Rural Maids!"

O Fairest of the rural maids! Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thine infant eye.

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild; And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face.

The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves.

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.

The forest depths, by foot unpressed, Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace that fills the air Of those calm solitudes is there.

W.C. BRYANT.

The Bucket.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view!-- The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it; The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it; And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well,-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure; For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,-- The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell! Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well, The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well,-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.

S. WOODWORTH.

Annabel Lee.

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes, that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling,--my darling,--my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

E.A. POE.

A Health.

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone,-- A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.