The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976, 1878-12-18
A FEW THOUGHTS OF BRYANT.
BY CHARLOTTE +. BATES.

the loneliness OF both poem and flowers
meet us, since the poet is no longer here.
Perhaps many do not remember "The
Fringed Gentian;'' for their sake the
last three stanzas are given:
Thou waitest late, and contest alone
When woods are bare and birds have flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if the Sky let fail
A flower from its ccrulean wall
would that thus, when shall see
The hour OF death draw near to me,
Hope, poisoning within my heart
Make look to Heayen as depart.
Not only docs the close of his hint of
+ Bryant's sweet faith in the other life, but
his poems abound in illusions to it, and
so vigorous was his character as man,
that his belief as poet has all the greater
weight, and adds not q little to the mass
Of evidence that the ages have given US.
1t has seemed singular that the ''Tanatop-
sis" should ever nave rested under the
doubtful eye Of the most Christian critic,
because it does not refer to the bright
and immortal side Of things. Those who
make such criticism seem to forget the
very meaning Of theE title; death viewed
solely as death-and the poem pretends
to nothing more-could hardly be dealt
with IN manner more at one with
human experience and poetic genius. It
is not a religious hymn-Watts and his
fellows can blend death with what is to
follow, if need De, for sacred Or funeral
service, but the poet meant only to pre-
sent death in that form in which it daily
occurres to the sight and knowl-
4 edge of men; the poem takes
matters just as far as our certainty of
things can take them, and does not trench
on the domain Of faith, unless the "quiet
; dreams" suggest that. An English critic
who edited Bryant's works years ago, said
in the preface: 'What a golden close it
had been to the poem (Thanatopsis) to
have described the uprising Of the vast
congregation of the dead" etc. This
would have been far from natural, at all
events. When we are saddened at the
thought of death and its accompaniment ::
at the successive rise, progress, and fall Of
generations, our reflections, unless we are
far On the way to sainthood, stop at the
tart, and the dim sense Of rest implied by
it, TO us in mood like this, that rest
seems eternal IN our use Of the word, and
we fepea. the poem, word for word. in a
depth Of sympathy. It is when we have
laid aside this purely natural and human
train Of thought in yieaD of death, that faith
comes in with its derived light, and its
promise ofimmortal activities.
It is somewhat memorable that the
same poet should have written thing of
equal, but necessarily different beauty
not SO much as regards the tone. but the
rhythm-on ''The Crowded Street," the
City Of the Dead and the City of the
Living thus immortalized by the same
voice. The latter poem is rarely refer.
red to in the list Of masterpieces, but
some collectors have the discrimination
to place it where # rightly belongs,
among the poets first. For the benefit of
such as have not the book at hand, lei a
few stanzas be quoted:
How fast the fitting figures come!
The mild, the fierce, the stony face;
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and
some
Where secret tears have left their trace.
They pass-to toll, to strife, to rest;
To halls in which the feast is spread;
To chambers where the funeral guest
In silence sits beside the dead.
And some to happy homes repair,
Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,
With mute caresses shall declare 49,
The tenderness they cannot speak.
And some who walk in calmness here
Shall shudder as they reach the door
Where one who made their dwelling dear,
Its flower, its light, is seen no more.
Who of this crowd tonight shall tread
The dance till daylight CLEAN again9
Who sorrow DER Che untimely dead?
Who writhe in throes Of mortal pain?
Some, famine struck, shall think how long
The cold, dark hours, how slow the light!
And some who faunt amid the thrOng
Shall hide in dens of shame tonight.
Each, where here his tasks or pleasures call,
They pass, and heed each other not;
There is, who heeds and holds them all
In his large love aud boundless thought
These struggling tides of life that seem
In WayWard, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.
Not only does the mass of Bryant's
poetry tend TO strengthen the bulWarbs
of virtue. freedom, and moral greatness,
while SO much of it beautifully portrays
the phases and attitude of nature, but one
particular poem deserves we'll a first
place in all hearts and hymn books
throughout Christendom: BLESSED are
they that Mourn."' Following are the
first, third and sixth stanzas:
Oh deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives peaceful tenor keep;
The power that pities man has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.
There is day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with morning light.
For God has marked each sorrowing day, &
And numbered every secret tear;
And Heavens long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.