  One day when Dr. Peter Bryant of Cummington, Massachusetts, was looking through his writing desk, he found a small package of papers on which some verses were written. He recognized the neat, legible handwriting as that of his son, and he paused to open the papers and read. Presently, he called aloud to his wife, "Here, Sallie, just listen to this poem which Cullen has written!" He began to read, and as he read, the proud mother listened with tears in her eyes. "Isn't that grand?" she cried. "I've always told you that Cullen would be a poet. And now just think what a pity it is that he must give up going to Yale College and settle down to the study of law!" "Yes, wife," responded Dr. Bryant, "it is to be regretted. But people with small means cannot always educate their children as they wish. A lawyer is a better breadwinner than most poets are, and I am satisfied that our boy will be a successful lawyer." "Of course he will," said Mrs. Bryant; "he will succeed at anything he may undertake. But that poem—why, Wordsworth never wrote anything half so grand or beautiful. What is the title?" "Thanatopsis." "Thanatopsis? I wonder what it means." "It is from two Greek words, and means 'A View of Death.' I have half a notion to take the poem to Boston with me next winter. I want to show it to my friend Mr. Philips." "Oh, do; and take some of Cullen's other poems with it. Perhaps he might think some of them good enough to publish." Dr. Peter Bryant was at that time a member of the senate in the Massachusetts general assembly. When the time came for the meeting of the assembly he went up to Boston, and he did not forget to take several of his son's poems with him. The North American Review was a great magazine in those days, and Dr. Bryant was well acquainted with Mr. Philips, one of its editors. He called at the office of the Review, and not finding Mr. Philips, he left the package of manuscript with his name written upon it. When Mr. Philips returned he found the package, and after reading the poems concluded that Dr. Bryant had written "Thanatopsis," and that the others were probably by his son Cullen. "It is a remarkable poem—a remarkable poem," he said, as he showed it to his two fellow-editors. "We have never published anything better in the Review," he said, and he began to read it to them. When he had finished, one of them, Richard Henry Dana, who was himself a poet, said doubtingly: "Mr. Philips, you have been imposed upon. There is no person in America who can write a poem like that." "Ah, but I know the man who wrote it," answered Mr. Philips. "He is in the state senate, and he isn't a man who would impose upon any person." "Well, I must have a look at the man who can write such lines as those," said Mr. Dana. He went to the statehouse, and to the senate chamber, and asked to see Senator Bryant. A tall, gray-bearded man was pointed out to him. Mr. Dana looked at him for a few minutes and then said to himself, "He has a fine head; but he is not the man who could write 'Thanatopsis'" So without speaking to him he returned to his office. Mr. Philips, still full of enthusiasm, soon had an interview with Dr. Bryant, and learned the truth in regard to the authorship of the poem. It was printed in the next issue of the North American Review. It was the first great poem ever produced in America; it was the work of a young man not eighteen years of age, and it is without doubt the greatest poem ever written by one so young. But let us read it. 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 And eloquence 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 Over thy spirit, and sad images 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 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 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 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, The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between— The venerable woods—rivers that move 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, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 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 In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men, The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man, Shall one by one be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. Expression: Observe that this poem is written in blank verse. In what respects does it differ from other forms of verse? Read it with great care, observing the marks of punctuation and giving to each passage the proper inflections and emphasis. Compare it with some other poems you have read. II One Sunday evening, in the summer of 1848, Edgar Allan Poe was visiting at the house of a friend in New York city. The day was warm, and the windows of the conservatory where he was sitting were thrown wide open to admit the breeze. Mr. Poe was very despondent because of many sorrows and disappointments, and he was plainly annoyed by the sound of some near-by church bells pealing the hour of worship. "I have made an agreement with a publisher to write a poem for him," he said, "but I have no inspiration for such a task. What shall I do?" His friend Mrs. Shew gave him an encouraging reply, and invited him to drink tea with her. Then she placed paper and ink before him and suggested that, if he would try to write, the required inspiration would come. "No," he answered; "I so dislike the noise of bells to-night, I cannot write. I have no subject—I am exhausted." Mrs. Shew then wrote at the top of the sheet of paper, The Bells, by E. A. Poe, and added a single line as a beginning: "The bells, the little silver bells." The poet accepted the suggestion, and after some effort finished the first stanza. Then Mrs. Shew wrote another line: "The heavy iron bells." This idea was also elaborated by Mr. Poe, who copied off the two stanzas and entitled them The Bells, by Mrs. M. L. Shew. He went home, pondering deeply upon the subject; the required inspiration was not long lacking; and in a few days the completed poem was ready to be submitted to the publisher. The Bells Hear the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight, Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rime, To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells— Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtledove that listens while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the riming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells— Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire And a resolute endeavor Now—now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells, What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang and crash and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, Of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells! In the clamor and the clangor of the bells. Hear the tolling of the bells— Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people—ah, the people— They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone: They are neither man nor woman; They are neither brute nor human; They are ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pÆan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pÆan of the bells, And he dances and he yells, Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rime, To the pÆan of the bells— Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rime, To the throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rime, To the rolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells,— To the tolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the bells! III In the early part of the nineteenth century Fitz-Greene Halleck was regarded as one of the greatest of American poets. He is now, however, remembered chiefly as the author of a single poem, "Marco Bozzaris," published in 1827. This poem has been described, perhaps justly, as "the best martial lyric in the English language." It was written at a time when the people of Greece were fighting for their independence; and it celebrates the heroism of the young Greek patriot, Marco Bozzaris, who was killed while leading a desperate but successful night attack upon the Turks, August 20, 1823. As here presented, it is slightly abridged. Marco Bozzaris At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring: Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old PlatÆa's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on—the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last; He woke—to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke—to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and saber stroke, And death shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike—till the last armed foe expires; Strike—for your altars and your fires; Strike—for the green graves of your sires; God—and your native land!" They fought—like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquered—but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee—there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume Like torn branch from death's leafless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remembers thee as one Long-loved and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage-bed.... And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's: One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. Expression: Talk with your teacher about these three poems, and the proper manner of reading each. Learn all that you can about their authors. |
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