The light of the hill, and the wave, and the sky MOVEMENTS OF TROOPS AT NIGHT. OBSERVED ye the cloud on that mountain's dim So heavily hanging?-as if it had been [green The tent of the Thunderer-the chariot of one And career o'er the tracks where the living had wheeld, ride, O'er the thunder-reft mount-on its ruggedest side; Like the warriors of air, that are seen in our sleep; Your heart would lie still till it number'd the last; And your breath would be held till the rear horsemen pass'd, So swiftly, so mutely, so darkly they went, Your hero's stern bosom will oftentimes quake, Your gallant young warrior-plume oftentimes shake, Before the cool marching that comes in the night, Passing by, like a cloud in the dim troubled light; Subduing the heart with a nameless affright, When that would swell strongly, and this would apIf the sound of one trumpet saluted the ear, [pear, Like some scarlet-wing'd bird, that is nurs'd in the day, When she shakes her red plumage in wrath o'er her prey. For be they the horsemen of earth, or of heaven, No blast that the trumpet of Slaughter hath given, No roll of the drum, and no cry of the fife, No neighing of steeds in the bloodiest strife, Is half so terrific to full swelling hearts, With echoless armour, with motionless plume, As the still, pulseless tramp of a band that departs, With ensigns all furl'd, in the trappings of gloom, Parading, like those who came up from the tomb, In silence and darkness-determined and slow, And dreadfully calm, as the murderer's brew, When his dagger is forth!—and ye see not the blow, Till the gleam of the blade shows your heart in its flow! When the night breeze is down, and the chill spirit O, say what ye will! the dull sound that awakes aches With its measureless thought, is more dreadful by far, "Tis the light that is seen to burst under the wave, AN INDIAN APOLLO. NOT like the airy god of moulded light, Just stepping from his chariot on the sight; Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud, With outstretch'd arm and bowstring twanging loud, And arrows singing as they pierce the air; With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair; As if he paused upon his bounding way, And loosen'd his fierce arrows-all in play; But like that angry god, in blazing light Bursting from space, and standing in his might— Of silver bow and woman's nerveless limb- MORNING AFTER A BATTLE. WHO thinks of battle now? The stirring sounds Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds On this sad, still, and melancholy morn, As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn Came dancing on the winds, and peal'd to heaven, In gone-by hours, before the battle even? The very horses move with halting pace; No more they heave their manes with fiery grace, With plunge, and reach, and step that leaves no trace; No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling Their light hoofs on the air. The bugles sing, And yet the meteor mane and rolling eye Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy; No more their housings blaze, no more the gold Or purple flashes from the opening fold; No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride Of changing hues; all, all, is crimson-dyed. They move with slow, far step; they hear the tread That measures out the tombing of the dead; The cannon speaks, but now no longer rolls In heavy thunders to the answering poles; But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies, Less stately in his strength, less lordly in his pride. MUSIC OF THE NIGHT. THERE are harps that complain to the presence of night, To the presence of night alone In a near and unchangeable tone- Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair On the clouds that unfold, Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides On his right and his left-So the Thunderer rides, When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides, Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting throne! Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day, That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night. But thick as the stars, all this music is made; In one sweet dreamy tone, For ever and for ever. NIGHT. "Tis dark abroad. The majesty of Night When life is helpless, and the dead have power; It is that hour when listening ones will weep ONTARIO. No sound is on the ear, no boatman's oar Drops its dull signal to the watchful shore; But all is listening, as it were to hear Some seraph harper stooping from her sphere And calling on the desert to express Its sense of Silence in her loveliness. What holy dreaming comes in nights like these, When, like yon wave, unruffled by a breeze, The mirrors of the memory all are spread And fanning pinions sail around your head; When all that man may love, alive or dead, Come murmuring sweet, unutterable things, And nestle on his heart with their young wings, And all perchance may come, that he may fear, And mutter doubtful curses in his ear; Hang on his loaded soul, and fill his brain With indistinct forebodings, dim, and vain.... The moon goes lightly up her thronging way, A gorgeous carpeting bestrews the ground; This is the mirror of dim Solitude, On which unholy things may ne'er intrude; TREES. THE heave, the wave and bend Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves INVASION OF THE SETTLER. WHERE now fresh streamlets answer to the hues Of passing seraph-wings; and fiery dews In yonder faint, mysterious scenery, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. [Born, 1794.] "A doubt having been intimated in the Monthly Anthology of June last, whether a youth of thirteen years could have been the author of this poemin justice to his merits the friends of the writer feel obliged to certify the fact from their personal knowledge of himself and his family, as well as his literary improvement and extraordinary talents. They would premise, that they do not come uncalled before the public to bear this testimony. They would prefer that he should be judged by his works, without favour or affection. As the doubt has been suggested, they deem it merely an act of justice to remove it, after which they leave him a candidate for favour in common with other literary adventurers. They therefore assure the public that Mr. BRYANT, the author, is a native of Cummington, in the county of Hampshire, and in the month of November last arrived at the age of fourteen years. These facts can be authenticated by many of the inhabitants of that place, as well as by several of his friends, who give this notice; and if it be deemed worthy of further inquiry, the printer is enabled to disclose their names and places of residence." Mr. BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, on the third day of November, 1794. At a very early age he gave indications of superior genius, and his father, an eminent physician, distinguished for erudition and taste as well as for extensive and thorough knowledge of science, watched with deep interest the development of his faculties under the most careful and judicious instruction. At ten years of age he made very creditable translations from some of the Latin poets, which were printed in a newspaper at Northampton, and during the vehement controversies between the Federalists and Democrats, which marked the period of Jefferson's administration, he wrote "The Embargo," a political satire, which was printed in Boston in 1808. Tasso when nine years of age wrote some lines to his mother which have been praised, CowLEY at ten finished his Tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe," POPE when twelve his "Ode to Solitude," and "the wondrous boy CHATTERTON," at the same age, some verses entitled "A Hymn for Christmas Day;" but none of these pieces are superior to that which gave a title to the volume of our precocious American. The satire was directed against President JEFFERSON and his party, and has recently been quoted to prove the author an inconsistent politician, the last forty years having furnished no ground, it may be supposed, for such an accusation. The descrip-in classical learning. In 1812 he obtained from tion of a caucus, in the following extract, shows that there has been little change in the character of such assemblies, and it will be confessed that the lines are remarkably spirited and graphic for so young an author: 66 "E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, And sues, successful, for each blockhead's vote." Some of the democrats affected to believe that Master BRYANT was older than was confessed, or that another person had written "The Embargo;" but the book was eagerly read, and in a few months a second edition appeared, with some additional pieces. To this was prefixed the following advertisement: In the sixteenth year of his age, BRYANT entered an advanced class of Williams College, in which he soon became distinguished for his attainments generally, and especially for his proficiency the faculty an honourable discharge, for the purpose of entering upon the study of the law, and in 1815 he was admitted to the bar, and commenced the practice of his profession in the village of Great Barrington, where he was soon after married. When but little more than eighteen years of age he had written his noble poem of "Thanatopsis," which was published in the North American Review for 1816.* In 1821 he delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College his longest poem, "The Ages," in which, from a survey of the past eras of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, he endeavours to justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinies of man. It is in the stanza of SPENSER, and in its versification is not inferior to The Faerie Queene." To a Waterfowl,"« Inscription for an entrance to a Wood," and several other pieces of nearly as great merit were likewise written during his residence at Great Barrington. Having passed ten years in successful practice in the courts, he determined to abandon the uncongenial business of a lawyer, and devote his attention more exclusively to literature. With this view, in 1825, he removed to the city of New York, and See note on page 92. with a friend, established The New York Review and Atheneum Magazine," in which he published several of his finest poems, and in "The Hymn to Death" paid a touching tribute to the memory of his father, who died in that year. In 1826 he assumed the chief direction of the "Evening Post," one of the oldest and most influential political and commercial gazettes in this country, with which he has ever since been connected. In 1827, 1828, and 1829, he was associated with Mr. VERPLANCK and Mr. SANDs in the production of "The Talisman," an annual; and he wrote two or three of the "Tales of Glauber Spa," to which, besides himself. Miss Sedgwick, Mr. Paulding, Mr. Leggett, and Mr. Sands were contributors. An intimate friendship subsisted between him and Mr. SANDS, and when that brilliant writer died, in 1832, he assisted Mr. VERPLANCK in editing his works. In the summer of 1834, Mr. BRYANT visited Europe, with his family, intending to devote a few years to literary studies, and to the education of his children. He travelled through France, Germany, and Italy, and resided several months in each of the cities of Florence, Pisa, Munich, and Heidelberg. The dangerous illness of his partner and associate, the late WILLIAM LEGGETT, compelled him to return hastily in the early part of 1836. The summer of 1840 he passed in Florida and the Valley of the Mississippi, and in 1844 he revisited Europe. He resides still in the city of New York, and continues to devote the chief part of his time to the editorship of the Evening Post, which has been for many years the leading journal of the democratic party. In 1832 a collection of all the poems Mr. BarANT had then written was published in New York; it was soon after reprinted in Boston, and a copy of it reaching WASHINGTON IRVING, who was then in England, he caused it to be published in London, where it has since passed through several editions. In 1842 he published The Fountain and other Poems;" in 1844 "The White-Footed Deer and other Poems," and in 1846 a splendid edition of his complete Poetical Works, illustrated with engravings from pictures by Leutze, has been published in Philadelphia by Carey & Hart. No volume has issued from the American press, of which the country should be more proud. We may send it abroad as a representative of our literature, and as a proof of our proficiency in the arts. The many and high excellencies of Mr. BRYANT have been almost universally recognised. With men of every variety of tastes he is a favourite. His works abound with passages of profound reflection which the philosopher meditates in his closet, and with others of such simple beauty and obvious intention as please the most illiterate. In his pages are illustrated all the common definitions of poetry, yet they are pervaded by a single purpose and spirit. Of the essential but inferior characteristics of poetry, which make it an art, he has a perfect mastery. Very few equal him in grace and power of expression. Every line has compactness, precision, and elegance, and flows with its fellows in exquisite harmony. His manner is on all occasions fitly chosen for his subject. His verse is solemn and impressive, or airy and playful, as suits his purpose. His beautiful imagery is appropriate, and has that air of freshness which distinguishes the productions of an author writing from his own observations of life and nature rather than from books. Mr. BRYANT is a translator to the world of the silent language of the universe. He "conforms his life to the beautiful order of God's works." In the meditation of nature he has learned high lessons of philosophy and religion. With no other poet does the subject spring so naturally from the object; the moral, the sentiment, from the contemplation of the things about him. There is nothing forced in his inductions. By a genuine carnestness he wins the sympathy of his reader, and prepares him to anticipate his thought. By an imperceptible influence he carries him from the beginning to the end of a poem, and leaves him infused with the very spirit in which it is conceived. In his descriptions of nature there is remarkable fidelity. They convey in an extraordinary degree the actual impression of what is grand and beautiful and peculiar in our scenery. The old and shadowy forests stand as they grew up from the seeds God planted, the sea-like prairies stretching in airy undulations beyond the eye's extremest vision, our lakes and mountains and rivers, he brings before us in pictures warmly coloured with the hues of the imagination, and as truthful as those which COLE puts on the canvas. It has been complained that there is very little sentiment, very little of the blending of passion with philosophy, in BRYANT's poetry; that his antique and dignified simplicity is never warmed with human sympathy. This is true in a degree, but in many of his poems are passages of touching pathos, and his interest in his race appears, contrary to the general experience, to increase with his age. It has been denied by some persons, reasoning from our descent, education, language, and manners, identifying us so closely with another people, that we can have a distinctive national literature. But there are very few of BRYANT's poems that could have been written in any country but our own. They breathe the very spirit of our young and vigorous life. He feels not more sensibly the grandeur and beauty of creation as manifested only in our own land, than he does the elevating influences of that freedom and power which is enjoyed by none but the citizens of this republic. To the thoughtful critic every thing in his verse belongs to America, and is as different from what marks the poetry of England as it is from that which most distinguishes the poetry of Germany or France. Mr. BRYANT is still in the meridian of his life; among the most recent of his productions are some of the finest he has written; and we may look with confidence to an increase of the bases of his high reputation, second now to that of no contem. porary who writes in our language. |