To find the long-hair'd mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent upon cerulean sands. O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line; And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breakers white, the giant game to play But shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave— A fisher's joy is to destroy, thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but under stand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea! Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father land Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave-Or, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory whose bones he grows among. (By permission of the Author.) 1 ECHO AND THE RICH MAN. "And Echo caught faintly the sound as it fell."-Byron. JAMES BRUTON. "O, Echo! I am very sad Though p'rhaps, in all the county, Echo: "Display some purse o' money!' "They Fortune bitterly condemn, Who on them seldom chucks her eye! "You mean that I should from my store, Should love them, help their lot? nay, more, Echo: "Be moved to add a ration!" They say they're hungry-thirsty-poor- Whilst I my tea sip-on their knees But what should I do-at my ease- "A dinner, too, p'rhaps? meat and birds? Ere I'd carve fowls! you mock my words! You do but give an echoing?" Echo: "Do but give a neck or wing!" "If men, reduced from fortune's state, Should I the anger smooth of fate— Echo: "Stop the Debtors' Station!" And show them, under Providence, Echo "The way to open a door!" "A wealthy and a prudent man, you Echo: "You shall have your sickly fears!" "Should I help those whose envious eyes Grudge me my better living? And pardon those who me despise And ever be for giving?" Echo: "Ever be forgiving!" (Copyright-contributed.) TO A MOSQUITO. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. [Mr. Bryant was born at Cummington, Massachusetts, U.S.A., on the 3rd of November, 1794. He is the father of the American poets, and was the first among them to establish a widely-spread reputation. While, however, we freely admit that the melodious flow of his verse, and the vigour and compactness of his language, prove him a perfect master of his art, his thoughts and his style bear evidence that it was from the study of the best English writers that his soul was attuned to song. What we look for in vain among most of the poets of America is individuality of thought and expression, something that has its counterpart in nature, and is not the result of a skilful adaptation of the old machinery, however ingenious and complicated it may be. It is precisely this individuality that makes Longfellow the most popular and most appreciated of the American poets in this country; he is the least like any of our own. Bryant was brought up for the bar, and followed his profession from 1815 to 1825. In the latter year he married and removed to New York, where he became one of the editors of the "New York Monthly Review." In 1832 he published a complete edition of his poems, and a copy of it reaching Washington Irving, who was then in London, he obtained for it re-publication in this country. Mr. Bryant visited Europe in 1834. Since 1836 his time has been chiefly occupied by his duties as editor of the "New York Evening Post."] FAIR insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out, In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint; Thou gettest many a brush, and many a curse, For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint: I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy. Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence, Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odours met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway- Shone through the snowy veils, like stars thro' mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. Sure these were sights to touch an anchorite! What sayst thou, slanderer !-rouge makes thee sick? And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood? Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crimeBut shun the sacrilege another time. That bloom was made to look at, not to touch; As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. |