Untravell'd even in thought, keen, piercing rays
Dart through the void, revealing to the sense
Systems and worlds unnumber'd. Take the glass
And search the skies. The opening skies pour down
Upon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire;
Stars, crowded, throng'd, in regions so remote,
That their swift beams-the swiftest things that
be-

Have travell'd centuries on their flight to earth.
Earth, sun, and nearer constellations! what
Are ye amid this infinite extent

And multitude of God's most infinite works!
And these are suns! vast, central, living fires,
Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds
That wait as satellites upon their power,

And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul,
And meditate the wonder! Countless suns
Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless
worlds!

Worlds in whose bosoms living things rejoice,
And drink the bliss of being from the fount
Of all-pervading Love. What mind can know,
What tongue can utter all their multitudes!
Thus numberless in numberless abodes!
Known but to thee, bless'd Father! Thine they are,
Thy children, and thy care; and none o'erlook'd
Of thee! No, not the humblest soul that dwells
Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course
Amid the giant glories of the sky,

Like the mean mote that dances in the beam
Amongst the mirror'd lamps, which fling
Their wasteful splendour from the palace wall,
None, none escape the kindness of thy care;
All compass'd underneath thy spacious wing,
Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand.
Tell me, ye splendid orbs! as from your throne
Ye mark the rolling provinces that own
Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes?
How form'd, how gifted? what their powers, their
state,

Their happiness, their wisdom? Do they bear
The stamp of human nature? Or has GoD
Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms
And more celestial minds? Does Innocence
Still wear her native and untainted bloom?
Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad,
And sow'd corruption in those fairy bowers?
Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire?
And Slavery forged his chains; and Wrath, and
Hate,

And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust
Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth,
And scatter wo where Heaven had planted joy?
Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen
And uncorrupt? existence one long joy,
Without disease upon the frame, or sin
Upon the heart, or weariness of life;
Hope never quench'd, and age unknown,
And death unfear'd; while fresh and fadeless youth
Glows in the light from God's near throne of love?
Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair!
Speak, speak! the mysteries of those living worlds
Unfold! No language? Everlasting light
And everlasting silence? Yet the eye
May read and understand. The hand of GoD

Has written legibly what man may know,
THE GLORY OF THE MAKER. There it shines,
Ineffable, unchangeable; and man,
Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe,
May know and ask no more. In other days,
When death shall give the encumber'd spirit wings,
Its range shall be extended; it shall roam,
Perchance, among those vast, mysterious spheres,
Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each,
Familiar with its children; learn their laws,
And share their state, and study and adore
The infinite varieties of bliss

And beauty, by the hand of Power divine
Lavish'd on all its works. Eternity
Shall thus roll on with ever fresh delight;
No pause of pleasure or improvement; world
On world still opening to the instructed mind
An unexhausted universe, and time
But adding to its glories. While the soul,
Advancing ever to the Source of light
And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns
In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss.

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

To prayer, to prayer;-for the morning breaks,
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
His light is on all below and above,
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
O, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send up the incense of grateful prayer.

To prayer;-for the glorious sun is gone,
And the gathering darkness of night comes on.
Like a curtain from Gon's kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his children repose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of
night.

To prayer ;--for the day that God has bless'd
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom;
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to Heaven the hallow'd hours.

There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
O, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows.
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand.
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.

Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow--
O, what is earth and its pleasures now!

And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer?
Kneel down at the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith.
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends;
There is peace in his eye that upward bends;
There is peace in his calm, confiding air;
For his last thoughts are Gon's,his last words prayer.
The voice of prayer at the sable bier!

A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.
It commends the spirit to GoD who gave;
It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;
It points to the glory where he shall reign,
Who whisper'd, "Thy brother shall rise again."
The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.
The ransom'd shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;
But a sinless and joyous song they raise;
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.
Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength
To join that holy band at length.
To him who unceasing love displays,
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven.

O what an hour for lofty thought!
My spirit burn'd within; I caught
A holy inspiration from the hour.

Around me man and nature slept;
Alone my solemn watch I kept,

Till morning dawn'd, and sleep resumed her power.

A vision pass'd upon my soul.

I still was gazing up to heaven,
As in the early hours of even;
I still beheld the planets roll,
And all those countless sons of light

Flame from the broad blue arch, and guide the moonless night.

When, lo, upon the plain,

Just where it skirts the swelling main,

A massive castle, far and high,

In towering grandeur broke upon my eye.

Proud in its strength and years, the ponderous pile
Flung up its time-defying towers;

Its lofty gates seem'd scornfully to smile
At vain assault of human powers,

And threats and arms deride.
Its gorgeous carvings of heraldric pride

* From a poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, in 1825.

In giant masses graced the walls above, And dungeons yawn'd below.

Yet ivy there and moss their garlands wove, Grave, silent chroniclers of time's protracted flow. Bursting on my steadfast gaze,

See, within, a sudden blaze!

So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell,
That scarcely stirs the pine-tree top,

Nor makes the wither'd leaf to drop,

The feeble fluttering of that flame would quell. But soon it spread-

Waving, rushing, fierce, and red

From wall to wall, from tower to tower,
Raging with resistless power;

Till every fervent pillar glow'd,

And every stone seem'd burning coal, Instinct with living heat, that flow'd

Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole. Beautiful, fearful, grand,

Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand.

At length a crackling sound began;
From side to side, throughout the pile it ran;
And louder yet and louder grew,

Till now in rattling thunder-peals it grew;
Huge shiver'd fragments from the pillars broke,
Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke.
The shatter'd walls were rent and riven,
And piecemeal driven

Like blazing comets through the troubled sky.
"Tis done; what centuries had rear'd,
In quick explosion disappear'd,
Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye.

But in their place

Bright with more than human grace, Robed in more than mortal seeming, Radiant glory in her face,

[ing

And eyes with heaven's own brightness beam-
Rose a fair, majestic form,

As the mild rainbow from the storm.
I mark'd her smile, I knew her eye;

And when, with gesture of command,
She waved aloft the cap-crown'd wand,
My slumbers fled mid shouts of " Liberty!”
Read ye the dream? and know ye not

How truly it unlock'd the world of fate! Went not the flame from this illustrious spot, And spreads it not, and burns in every state? And when their old and cumbrous walls, Fill'd with this spirit, glow intense, Vainly they rear'd their impotent defence: The fabric falls!

That fervent energy must spread,

Till despotism's towers be overthrown; And in their stead,

Liberty stands alone!

Hasten the day, just Heaven!
Accomplish thy design;

And let the blessings thou hast freely given,
Freely on all men shine;

Till equal rights be equally enjoy'd
And human power for human good employ'd;
Till law, and not the sovereign, rule sustain,
And peace and virtue undisputed reign.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT was born at Cummington, in Massachusetts, on the third day of November, 1794. His father, a well-educated and popular physician, was familiar with the best English literature, and perceiving in his son early indications of superior genius, he attended carefully to his instruction, taught him the art of composition, and guided his literary taste. He is alluded to in several of our author's poems, espe cially in "The Hymn to Death," written in 1825,* in which an eloquent tribute is paid to his memory.

"Alas, I little thought that the stern power
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus,
Before the strain was ended. It must cease-
For he is in his grave who taught my youth
The art of verse, and in the bud of life
Offer'd me to the muses. O, cut off
Untimely when thy reason in its strength,
Ripen'd by years of toil and studious search
And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught
Thy hand to practise best the lenient art
To which thou gavest thy laborious days,
And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth
Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes

And on hard cheeks; and they who deem'd thy skill
Delay'd their death-hour, shudder'd and turn'd pale
When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou
Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have
To offer at thy grave-this, and the hope
To copy thy example, and to leave

A name of which the wretched shall not think
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive

As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou
Whose early guidance train'd my infant steps,-
Rest, in the bosom of GoD, till the brief sleep
Of death is over, and a happier life
Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust."

Among instances of literary precocity, there are few recorded more remarkable than that of BRYANT. TASSO, when nine years old, wrote some lines to his mother, which have been praised; CowLEY, at ten, finished his "Tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe;" POPE, when twelve, the "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 evidence the possession of more genius than is displayed in BRYANT'S "Embargo” and “Spanish Revolution,” written in his thirteenth year. These were printed, in a thin volume, "for the author," at Boston, in 1808, and passed to a second edition in 1809. In 1810, the youthful satirist entered Williams

The Hymn to Death was principally written in 1820, but the death of his father occurring afterward, the lines quoted above were added in 1825, and the poem was then published in the New York Review.

† His earliest attempts in poetry were made when he was between nine and ten years old. One of his pieces, written in this period, appeared in the columns of a country gazette at Northampton.

The following advertisement was prefixed to the second edition of the "Embargo," in consequence of the

College, where he was distinguished above any of his classmates for his proficiency in languages and polite letters. After remaining in that seminary two years, he solicited and obtained an honourable dismissal, and entered as a student the law office of Mr. Justice Howe, and afterward that of the Honourable WILLIAM BAYLIES. He was admitted to the bar at Plymouth, Massachusetts, in 1815, and followed his profession until 1825, when he removed to the city of New York.

In 1821, BRYANT published at Cambridge a volume containing The Ages, Thanatopsis,* To a

expression of some doubts in regard to the author's age, in one of the magazines:

"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 poem-in 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 testimonythey 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. The 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.

"February, 1809.”

The following lines, though by no means the most vigorous in the satire, will serve to show its style :

"E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim,
Mislead with falsehood, and with zeal inflame;
Lift her black banner, spread her empire wide,
And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride.
She blows her brazen trump, and, at the sound,
A motley throng, obedient, flock around;
A mist of changing hue o'er all she flings,
And darkness perches on her dragon wings!

O, might some patriot rise! the gloom dispel,
Chase Error's mist, and break her magic spell!
But vain the wish, for, hark! the murmuring meed
Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed;
Enter, and view the thronging concourse there,
Intent, with gaping mouth and stupid stare;
While, in the midst, their supple leader stands,
Harangues aloud, and flourishes his hands;
To adulation tunes his servile throat,

And sues, successful, for each blockhead's vote." The "Embargo" was directed against President JEFFERSON and his measures, and caused considerable amusement at the time of its publication. It has recently been quoted to prove an inconsistency in the political course of Mr. BRYANT; but the absurdity of contrasting the opinions of thirteen with those of forty-eight is so apparent, that it is necessary only to allude to it. * See note on page 64. Thanatopsis was written in his eighteenth year.

Water-fowl, Green River, The Yellow Violet, Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood, and other pieces, which established his reputation as one of the first poets of the time. In The Ages, 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.

Lo! unveil'd,

The scene of those stern ages! What is there!
A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air
Moans with the crimson surges that entomb
Cities and banner'd armies; forms that wear
The kingly circlet, rise, amid the gloom,

O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallow'd in its womb.

Those ages have no memory--but they left
A record in the desert-columns strewn

On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft,
Heap'd, like a host in battle overthrown;
Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone
Were hewn into a city; streets that spread
In the dark earth, where never breath has blown
Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread
The long and perilous ways-the cities of the dead.

And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled-
They perish'd-but the eternal tombs remain—
And the black precipice, abrupt and wild,
Pierced by long toil and hollow'd to a fane ;-
Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain
The everlasting arches, dark and wide,

Like the night heaven when clouds are black with rain.
But idly skill was task'd, and strength was plied,
All was the work of slaves, to swell a despot's pride.

This is the only poem he has written in the stanza of SPENSER. In its versification it is not inferior to the best passages of the Faerie Queene or Childe Harold, and its splendid imagery and pure philosophy are as remarkable as the power it displays over language.

About the time of the publication of The Ages, Mr. BRYANT was married, and in 1825, he removed to New York, where he has ever since resided. Soon after his arrival in that city, he became one of the editors of the New York Monthly Review, in which he first published many of his most admired poems; and, in 1826, an editor 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 the late 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 the abovenamed authors, the late Mr. LEGGETT and Miss SEDGWICK were contributors. An intimate friend

*

*These authors wrote all the Talisman, with the exception of Red Jacket, by HALLECK, and one or two articles from other pens.

ship subsisted between him and Mr. SANDS, and when that brilliant writer died, in 1832, he assisted Mr. VERPLANCK in editing his works.

In 1832, an edition of all the poems BRYANT 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 republished in London. Since that time it has passed through several editions, the last of which contains seventeen poems not in any previous impression. The Winds, The Old Man's Counsel, and An Evening Reverie, in this volume, have not appeared in any collection of his works.

ren.

In the summer of 1834, he visited Europe, with his family, intending to devote a few years to literary pursuits, and to the education of his childHe 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; and he has since devoted all his time, except a few weeks in the summer of 1840, passed in the Valley of the Mississippi, to his duties as editor of the New York Evening Post.

Mr. BRYANT is a close observer of Nature. Hill and valley, forest and open plain, sunshine and storm, the voices of the rivulet and the wind, have been familiar to him from his early years; and, though he has not neglected books, they have been less than these the subjects of his study, and the sources of his pleasure. No poet has described with more fidelity the beauties of the creation, nor sung in nobler song the greatness of the Creator. He is the translator of the silent language of the universe to the world. His poetry is pervaded by a pure and genial philosophy, a solemn, religious tone, that influence the fancy, the understanding, and the heart.

He is a national poet. His works are not only American in their subjects and their imagery, but in their spirit. They breathe a love of liberty, a hatred of wrong, and a sympathy with mankind. His genius is not versatile; he has related no history; he has not sung of the passion of love; he has not described artificial life. Still, the tenderness and feeling in The Death of the Flowers, Rizpah, The Indian Girl's Lament, and other pieces, show that he might have excelled in delineations of the gentler passions, had he made them his study.

The melodious flow of his verse, and the vigour and compactness of his language, prove him a perfect master of his art. But the loftiness of his imagination, the delicacy of his fancy, the dignity and truth of his thoughts, constitute a higher claim to our admiration than mastery of the intricacies of rhythm, and of the force and graces of expres sion.

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 is laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd 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 for ever 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 mould.
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 sepulchre.-The hills
Rock-ribb'd, 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, pour'd round
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, and the Barcan desert pierce,
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 there reign alone.

[all,

So shalt thou rest,-and what if thou withdraw Unheeded by 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 favourite 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 glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,—
Shall one by one be gather'd 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 that mysterious realm, 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, sustain'd and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one that draws the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

FOREST HYMN.

THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn'd

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,―ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offer'd to the Mightiest solemn thanks,
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath, that sway'd at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd
His spirit with the thought of boundless power,
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
Gon's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear.

Father, thy hand
Hath rear'd these venerable columns, thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose [down
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches; till, at last, they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults,
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride
Report not. No fantastic carvings show,
The boast of our vain race, to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here-thou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds,
That run along the summit of these trees
In music;-thou art in the cooler breath,