Selections From American Poetry

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SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETRY

With Special Reference to Poe, Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier

by Margaret Sprague Carhart

CONTENTS:

Introduction

ANNE BRADSTREET
Contemplation

MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH
The Day of Doom

PHILLIP FRENEAU
The Wild Honeysuckle
To a Honey Bee
The Indian Burying Ground
Eutaw Springs

FRANCIS HOPKINSON
The Battle of the Kegs

JOSEPH HOPKINSON
Hail Columbia

ANONYMOUS
The Ballad of Nathan Hale
A Fable

TIMOTHY DWIGHT
Love to the Church

SAMUEL WOODWORTH
The Old Oaken Bucket

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Thanatopsis
The Yellow Violet
To a Waterfowl
Green River
The West Wind
"I Broke the Spell that Held Me Long"
A Forest Hymn
The Death of the Flowers
The Gladness of Nature
To the Fringed Gentian
Song of Marion's Men
The Crowded Street
The Snow Shower
Robert of Lincoln
The Poet
Abraham Lincoln

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY
The Star Spangled Banner

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
The American Flag
The Culprit Fay

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK
Marco Bozzaris
On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE
Home Sweet Home

EDGAR ALLAN POE
To Helen
Israfel
Lenore
The Coliseum
The Haunted Palace
To One in Paradise
Eulalie A Song
The Raven
To Helen
Annabel Lee
The Bells
Eldorado

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Hymn to the Night
A Psalm of Life
The Skeleton in Armor
The Wreck of the Hesperus
The Village Blacksmith
It is not Always May
Excelsior
The Rainy Day
The Arrow and the Song
The Day is Done
Walter Von Vogelweide
The Builders
Santa Filomena
The Discoverer of the North Cape
Sandalphon
Tales of a Wayside Inn
The Landlord's Tale
The Sicilian's Tale
The Theologian's Tale

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
Proem
The Frost Spirit
Songs of Labor Dedication
Songs of Labor The Lumberman
Barclay of Ury
All's Well
Raphael
Seed-Time and Harvest
The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall
Skipper Ireson's Ride
The Double-headed Snake of Newbury
Maud Muller
Burns
The Hero
The Eternal Goodness
The Pipes at Lucknow
Cobbler Keezar's Vision
The Mayflowers

RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Goodbye
Each and All
The Problem
The Rhodora
The Humble-Bee
The Snow-Storm
Fable
Forbearance
Concord Hymn
Boston Hymn
The Titmouse

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Hakon's Lay
Flowers
Impartiality
My Love
The Fountain
The Shepherd of King Admetus
Ode recited at the Harvard Commemoration
Prelude to the Vision of Sir Launfal
Biglow Papers
What Mr Robinson Thinks
The Courtin'
Sunthin' in the Pastoral Line
An Indain Summer Reverie
A Fable for Critics (selection)

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Old Ironsides
The Last Leaf
My Aunt
The Chambered Nautilus
Contentment
The Deacon's Masterpiece

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ
Storm on the St. Bernard
Drifting

WALT WHITMAN
O Captain! My Captain!
Pioneers! O Pioneers!

NOTES

SELECTIONS OF AMERICAN POETRY

INTRODUCTION

If we define poetry as the heart of man expressed in beautiful language,
we shall not say that we have no national poetry. True, America has
produced no Shakespeare and no Milton, but we have an inheritance in all
English literature; and many poets in America have followed in the
footsteps of their literary British forefathers.

Puritan life was severe. It was warfare, and manual labor of a most
exhausting type, and loneliness, and devotion to a strict sense of duty.
It was a life in which pleasure was given the least place and duty the
greatest. Our Puritan ancestors thought music and poetry dangerous,
if not actually sinful, because they made men think of this world rather
than of heaven. When Anne Bradstreet wrote our first known American
poems, she was expressing English thought; "The tenth muse" was not
animated by the life around her, but was living in a dream of the land
she had left behind; her poems are faint echoes of the poetry of England.
After time had identified her with life in the new world, she wrote
"Contemplations," in which her English nightingales are changed to
crickets and her English gilli-flowers to American blackberry vines.
The truly representative poetry of colonial times is Michael
Wigglesworth's "Day of Doom. This is the real heart of the Puritan,
his conscience, in imperfect rhyme. It fulfills the first part of our
definition, but shows by its lack of beautiful style that both elements
are necessary to produce real poetry.

Philip Freneau was the first American who sought to express his life in
poetry. The test of beauty of language again excludes from real poetry
some of his expressions and leaves us a few beautiful lyrics, such as
"The Wild Honeysuckle," in which the poet sings his love of American
nature. With them American poetry may be said to begin.

The fast historical event of national importance was the American
Revolution. Amid the bitter years of want, of suffering, and of war; few
men tried to write anything beautiful. Life was harsh and stirring and
this note was echoed in all the literature. As a result we have
narrative and political poetry, such as "The Battle of the Kegs" and "A
Fable," dealing almost entirely with events and aiming to arouse military
ardor. In "The Ballad of Nathan Hale," the musical expression of
bravery, pride, and sympathy raises the poem so far above the rhymes of
their period that it will long endure as the most memorable poetic
expression of the Revolutionary period.

Poetry was still a thing of the moment, an avocation, not dignified by
receiving the best of a man. With William Cullen Bryant came a change.
He told our nation that in the new world as well as in the old some men
should live for the beautiful. Everything in nature spoke to him in
terms of human life. Other poets saw the re1ation between their own
lives and the life of the flowers and the birds, but Bryant constantly
expressed this relationship. The concluding stanza of "To a Waterfowl"
is the most perfect example of this characteristic, but it underlies also
the whole thought of his youthful poem "Thanatopsis" (A View of Death).
If we could all read the lives of our gentians and bobolinks as he did,
there would be more true poetry in America. Modern thinkers urge us to
step outside of ourselves into the lives of others and by our imagination
to share their emotions; this is no new ambition in America; since Bryant
in "The Crowded Street" analyzes the life in the faces he sees.

Until the early part of the nineteenth century American poetry dealt
mainly with the facts of history and the description of nature. A new
element of fancy is prominent in Joseph Rodman Drake's "The Culprit Fay."
It dances through a long narrative with the delicacy of the fay himself.

Edgar Allan Poe brought into our poetry somber sentiment and musical
expression. Puritan poetry was somber, but it was almost devoid of
sentiment. Poe loved sad beauty and meditated on the sad things in life.
Many of his poems lament the loss of some fair one. "To Helen," "Annabel
Lee" "Lenore," and "To One In Paradise" have the theme, while in "The
Raven" the poet is seeking solace for the loss of Lenore. "Eulalie--A
Song" rises, on the other hand to intense happiness. With Poe the sound
by which his idea was expressed was as important as the thought itself.
He knew how to make the sound suit the thought, as in "The Raven" and
"The Bells." One who understands no English can grasp the meaning of the
different sections from the mere sound, so clearly distinguishable are
the clashing of the brass and the tolling of the iron bells. If we
return to our definition of poetry as an expression of the heart of a
man, we shall find the explanation of these peculiarities: Poe was a man
of moods and possessed the ability to express these moods in appropriate
sounds.

The contrast between the emotion of Poe and the c alm spirit of the man
who followed him is very great. In Henry Wadsworth Longfellow American
poetry reached high-water mark. Lafcadio Hearn in his "Interpretations
of Literature" says: "Really I believe that it is a very good test of any
Englishman's ability to feel poetry, simply to ask him, `Did you like
Longfellow when you were a boy?' If he eats `No,' then it is no use to
talk to him on the subject of poetry at all, however much he might be
able to tell you about quantities and metres." No American has in equal
degree won the name of "household poet." If this term is correctly
understood, it sums up his merits more succinctly than can any other
title.

Longfellow dealt largely with men and women and the emotions common to us
all. Hiawatha conquering the deer and bison, and hunting in despair for
food where only snow and ice abound; Evangeline faithful to her father
and her lover, and relieving suffering in the rude hospitals of a new
world; John Alden fighting the battle between love and duty; Robert of
Sicily learning the lesson of humility; Sir Federigo offering his last
possession to the woman he loved; Paul Revere serving his country in time
of need; the monk proving that only a sense of duty done can bring
happiness: all these and more express the emotions which we know are true
in our own lives. In his longer narrative poems he makes the legends of
Puritan life real to us; he takes English folk-lore and makes us see
Othere talking to Arthur, and the Viking stealing his bride. His short
poems are even better known than his longer narratives. In them he
expressed his gentle, sincere love of the young, the suffering, and the
sorrowful. In the Sonnets he showed; that deep appreciation of European
literature which made noteworthy his teaching at Harvard and his
translations.

He believed that he was assigned a definite task in the world which he
described as follows in his last poem:

"As comes the smile to the lips,
The foam to the surge;

So come to the Poet his songs,
All hitherward blown
From the misty realm, that belongs
To the vast unknown.

His, and not his, are the lays
He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
And the pride of a name.

For voices pursue him by day
And haunt him by night,
And he listens and needs must obey,
When the Angel says: 'Write!'

John Greenleaf Whittier seems to suffer by coming in such close proximity
to Longfellow. Genuine he was, but his spirit was less buoyant than
Longfellow's and he touches our hearts less. Most of his early poems
were devoted to a current political issue. They aimed to win converts to
the cause of anti-slavery. Such poems always suffer in time in
comparison with the song of a man who sings because "the heart is so full
that a drop overfills it." Whittier's later poems belong more to this
class and some of them speak to-day to our emotions as well as to our
intellects. "The Hero" moves us with a desire to serve mankind, and the
stirring tone of "Barbara Frietchie" arouses our patriotism by its
picture of the same type of bravery. In similar vein is "Barclay of
Ury," which must have touched deeply the heart of the Quaker poet. "The
Pipes of Lucknow" is dramatic in its intense grasp of a climactic hour
and loses none of its force in the expression. We can actually hear the
skirl of the bagpipes. Whittier knew the artiste of the world and talked
to us about Raphael and Burns with clear-sighted, affectionate interest.
His poems show varied characteristics; the love of the sterner aspects of
nature, modified by the appreciation of the humble flower; the conscience
of the Puritan, tinged with sympathy for the sorrowful; the steadfastness
of the Quaker, stirred by the fire of the patriot.

The poetry of Ralph Waldo Emerson is marked by serious contemplation
rather than by warmth of emotional expression. In Longfellow the appeal
is constantly to a heart which is not disassociated from a brain; in
Emerson the appeal is often to the intellect alone. We recognize the
force of the lesson in "The Titmouse," even if it leaves us less devoted
citizens than does "The Hero" and less capable women than does
"Evangeline." He reaches his highest excellence when he makes us feel as
well as understand a lesson, as in "The Concord Hymn" and "Forbearance."
If we could all write on the tablets of our hearts that single stanza,
forbearance would be a real factor in life. And it is to this poet whom
we call unemotional that we owe this inspiring quatrain:

"So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When duty whispers low, Thou must,
The youth replies, I can!"

James Russell Lowell was animated by a well-defined purpose which he
described in the following lines:

"It may be glorious to write
Thoughts that make glad the two or three
High souls like those far stars that come in sight
Once in a century.

But better far it is to speak
One simple word which, now and then
Shall waken their free nature in the weak
And friendless sons of men.

To write some earnest verse or line
Which, seeking not the praise of art,

Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine
In the untutored heart."

His very accomplishments made it difficult for him to reach this aim,
since his poetry does not move "the untutored heart" so readily as does
that of Longfellow or Whittier. It is, on the whole, too deeply burdened
with learning and too individual in expression to fulfil his highest
desire. Of his early poems the most generally known is probably "The
Vision of Sir Launfal," in which a strong moral purpose is combined with
lines of beautiful nature description:

"And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days.

Two works by which he will be permanently remembered show a deeper and
more effective Lowell. "The Biglow Papers" are the most successful of
all the American poems which attempt to improve conditions by means of
humor. Although they refer in the main to the situation at the time of
the Mexican War, they deal with such universal political traits that they
may be applied to almost any age. They are written in a Yankee dialect
which, it is asserted, was never spoken, but which enhances the humor, as
in "What Mr. Robinson Thinks." Lowell's tribute to Lincoln occurs in the
Ode which he wrote to commemorate the Harvard students who enlisted in
the Civil War. After dwelling on the search for truth which should be
the aim of every college student, he turns to the delineation of
Lincoln's character in a eulogy of great beauty. Clear in analysis, far-
sighted in judgment, and loving in sentiment, he expresses that opinion
of Lincoln which has become a part of the web of American thought. His
is no hurried judgment, but the calm statement of opinion which is to-day
accepted by the world:

"They all are gone, and, standing like a tower,
Our children shall behold his fame,
The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,
Sagacious, patient, dreading, praise, not blame,
Now birth of our new soil, the first American."

With Oliver Wendell Holmes comes the last of this brief American list of
honor. No other American has so combined delicacy with the New England
humor. We should be poorer by many a smile without "My Aunt" and "The
Deacon's Masterpiece." But this is not his entire gift. "The Chambered
Nautilus" strikes the chord of noble sentiment sounded in the last stanza
of "Thanatopsis" and it will continue to sing in our hearts "As the swift
seasons roll." There is in his poems the smile and the sigh of the well-
loved stanza,

"And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the Spring.
Let them smile; as I do now;
As the old forsaken bough
Where I cling."

And is this all? Around these few names does all the fragrance of
American poetry hover? In the hurry, prosperity, and luxury of modern
life is the care if the flower of poetry lost? Surely not. The last
half of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth have
brought many beautiful flowers of poetry and hints of more perfect
blossoms. Lanier has sung of the life of the south he loved; Whitman and
Miller have stirred us with enthusiasm for the progress of the nation;
Field and Riley have made us laugh and cry in sympathy; Aldrich, Sill,
Van Dyke, Burroughs, and Thoreau have shared with us their hoard of
beauty. Among the present generation may there appear many men and women
whose devotion to the delicate flower shall be repaid by the gratitude of
posterity!

ANNE BRADSTREET

CONTEMPLATIONS

Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide,
When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed,
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride
Were gilded o'er by his rich golden head.
Their leaves and fruits, seem'd painted, but was true
Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hue,
Rapt were my senses at this delectable view.

I wist not what to wish, yet sure, thought I,
If so much excellence abide below,
How excellent is He that dwells on high!
Whose power and beauty by his works we know;
Sure he is goodness, wisdom, glory, light,
That hath this underworld so richly dight:
More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter and no night.

Then on a stately oak I cast mine eye,
Whose ruffling top the clouds seem'd to aspire;
How long since thou wast in thine infancy?
Thy strength, and stature, more thy years admire;
Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born,
Or thousand since thou breakest thy shell of horn?
If so, all these as naught Eternity doth scorn.

I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,
The black-clad cricket bear a second part,
They kept one tune, and played on the same string,
Seeming to glory in their little art.
Shall creatures abject thus their voices raise?
And in their kind resound their Master's praise:
Whilst I, as mute, can warble forth no higher lays.

When I behold the heavens as in their prime,
And then the earth (though old) still clad in green,
The stones and trees, insensible of time,
Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen;
If winter come, and greenness then do fade,
A spring returns, and they more youthful made;
But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's
laid.

MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH

THE DAY OF DOOM

SOUNDING OF THE LAST TRUMP

Still was the night, Serene & Bright,
when all Men sleeping lay;
Calm was the season, & carnal reason
thought so 'twould last for ay.
Soul, take thine ease, let sorrow cease,
much good thou hast in store:
This was their Song, their Cups among,
the Evening before.

Wallowing in all kind of sin,
vile wretches lay secure:
The best of men had scarcely then
their Lamps kept in good ure.
Virgins unwise, who through disguise
amongst the best were number'd,
Had closed their eyes; yea, and the wise
through sloth and frailty slumber'd.

For at midnight brake forth a Light,
which turn'd the night to day,
And speedily a hideous cry
did all the world dismay.
Sinners awake, their hearts do ake,
trembling their loynes surprizeth;
Amaz'd with fear, by what they hear,
each one of them ariseth.

They rush from Beds with giddy heads,
and to their windows run,
Viewing this light, which shines more bright
than doth the Noon-day Sun.
Straightway appears (they see 't with tears)
the Son of God most dread;
Who with his Train comes on amain
to Judge both Quick and Dead.

Before his face the Heav'ns gave place,
and Skies are rent asunder,
With mighty voice, and hideous noise,
more terrible than Thunder.
His brightness damps heav'ns glorious lamps
and makes them hang their heads,
As if afraid and quite dismay'd,
they quit their wonted steads.

No heart so bold, but now grows cold
and almost dead with fear:
No eye so dry, but now can cry,
and pour out many a tear.
Earth's Potentates and pow'rful States,
Captains and Men of Might
Are quite abasht, their courage dasht
at this most dreadful sight.

Mean men lament, great men do rent
their Robes, and tear their hair:
They do not spare their flesh to tear
through horrible despair.
All Kindreds wail: all hearts do fail:
horror the world doth fill
With weeping eyes, and loud out-cries,
yet knows not how to kill.

Some hide themselves in Caves and Delves,
in places under ground:
Some rashly leap into the Deep,
to scape by being drown'd:
Some to the Rocks (O senseless blocks!)
and woody Mountains run,
That there they might this fearful sight,
and dreaded Presence shun.

In vain do they to Mountains say,
fall on us and us hide
From Judges ire, more hot than fire,
for who may it abide?
No hiding place can from his Face
sinners at all conceal,
Whose flaming Eye hid things doth 'spy
and darkest things reveal.

The Judge draws nigh, exalted high,
upon a lofty Throne,
Amidst a throng of Angels strong,
lo, Israel's Holy One!
The excellence of whose presence
and awful Majesty,
Amazeth Nature, and every Creature,
doth more than terrify.

The Mountains smoak, the Hills are shook,
the Earth is rent and torn,
As if she should be clear dissolv'd,
or from the Center born.
The Sea doth roar, forsakes the shore,
and shrinks away for fear;
The wild beasts flee into the Sea,
so soon as he draws near.

Before his Throne a Trump is blown,
Proclaiming the day of Doom:
Forthwith he cries, Ye dead arise,
and unto Judgment come.
No sooner said, but 'tis obey'd;
Sepulchres opened are:
Dead bodies all rise at his call,
and 's mighty power declare.

His winged Hosts flie through all Coasts,
together gathering
Both good and bad, both quick and dead,
and all to Judgment bring.
Out of their holes those creeping Moles,
that hid themselves for fear,
By force they take, and quickly make
before the Judge appear.

Thus every one before the Throne
of Christ the Judge is brought,
Both righteous and impious
that good or ill hath wrought.
A separation, and diff'ring station
by Christ appointed is
(To sinners sad) 'twixt good and bad,
'twixt Heirs of woe and bliss.

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