THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 297 1. 125. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. THE melancholy days are come, The saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 2. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, In brighter light and softer airs, Alas! they all are in their graves; The gentle race of flowers With the fair and good of ours. 3. The wind-flower and the violet, They perish'd long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died 1 Ed' dying, moving circularly. This reading-caws, instead of calls --is sanctioned by the gifted author. This piece alone is sufficient to seal the reputation of a poet, who, at least, on this side of the Atlantic, has no superior. In making these selections, the authors frankly confess the serious difficulty they have experienced in deciding, not what to take, but what to omit, that bears the name of William Cullen Bryant. But on the hill the golden-rod, And the yellow sun-fower by the brook, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, And the brightness of their smile was gone 4. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, To call the squirrel and the bee From out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, And twinkle in the smoky light, The waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers, 5. And then I think of one who in The fair, meek blossom that grew up In the cold, moist earth we laid her, Like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, Should perish with the flowers. W. C. BRYANT. 126. THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. B berless towers of the spy waves in the branches of EAUTY is an all-pervading presence. It unfolds in the num THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 299 the trees and the green blades of grass. It haunts the depths of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone. 2. And not only these minute objects, but the ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heavens, the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow with beauty. The universe is its temple; and those men who are alive to it, can not lift their eyes without feeling themselves encompassed with it on every side. 3. Now this beauty is so precious, the enjoyments it gives are so refined and pure, so congenial' with our tenderest and noblest feelings, and so akin to worship, that it is painful to think of the multitude of men as living in the midst of it, and living almost as blind to it, as if, instead of this fair earth and glōrious sky, they were tenants of a dungeon. An infinite joy is lost to the world by the want of culture of this spiritual endowment. 4. Suppose that I were to visit a cottage, and to see its walls lined with the choicest pictures of Raphael, and every spare nook filled with statues of the most ex'quisite workmanship, and that I were to learn that neither man, woman, nor child ever cast an eye at these miracles of art, how should I feel their privation; how should I want to open their eyes, and to help them to comprehend and feel the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice! But every husbandman is living in sight of the works of a divine Artist; and how much would his existence be elevated, could he see the glory which shines fōrth in their forms, hues, proportions, and moral expression! 5. I have spoken only of the beauty of nature, but how much of this mysterious charm is found in the elegant arts, and especially in literature? The best books have most beauty. The greatest truths are wronged if not linked with beauty, and they win their way most surely and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this their natural and fit attire. Now no man receives the true culture of a man, in whom the sensibility to the beautiful is not cherished; and I know of no condition in life from which it should be excluded. 6. Of all luxuries this is the cheapest and most at hand; and 'Con gè' ni al, partaking of the same nature or feeling.—2 Raphael, one of the most celebrated painters. Born 1483, died 1520. it seems to me to be most important to those conditions, where coarse labor tends to give a grōssness to the mind. From the diffusion of the sense of beauty in ancient Greece, and of the taste for music in modern Germany, we learn that the people at large may partake of refined gratifications, which have hitherto been thought to be necessarily restricted to a few. W. E. CHANNING. 127. THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED. 1. That standest meekly by, With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, Thy dark and fiery eye Fret not to roam the desert now I With all thy wingèd speed, may not mount on thee again: 2. Fret not with that impatient hoof, The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, Which clouds the stranger's home; 4. The morning sun shall dawn again, Shall I gallop through the desert paths THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED. Evening shall darken on the earth, And o'er the sandy plain Some other steed, with slower step, 5. Yes! thou must go! the wild, free breeze, Thy master's house, from all of these My exiled one must fly. Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, 6. Only in sleep shall I behold That dark eye glancing bright; 7. Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, And the rich blood that's in thee swells In thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes which rest on thee 8. Will they ill use thee? If I thought- Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd, And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone 301 |