The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1878-12-10
POETRY.
The Death Of Bryant.
BY EDMUND G. sTEDMAN.

How was it then with Nature when the soul
VI her own poet heard voice which came
From out the void, "Thou art no longer lent
t. Earth!" when that incarnate spirit. bent
With the abiding force of waves that roll.
She did recall? How went
HIS antique shade, beaconed upon Its way
Through the still aisles Of night 10 universal day?
Her voice Il was, her sovereign voice, which babe
The Earth resolve his elemental mould;
AND once mole came her summons: Long, too long
Thou lingerest and charmest thy songi
"Refurn, Return" Thus nature spoke, and madel
Her sign; aud forthwith on the minstrel old
Fell from the bent bow Of the answering Sun.
VINO cried, The song is closed, theinv0cation done
But not as for those youths dead ere their prime.
New-entcred on their musics high domain
Then snatched away, did all things SORROW own;
When Bion died. and the Sicilian rhyme
bewalied; no sobbng OF the reeds that plain,
Rehearsing some last moan
OfLycida; no strains which skyward swell
For Adonais still, and still for Astrophsl!
The Muses. wept not for him as for those
Or whom each vanished like beauteous star
Quenched ere the shining midwatch of the night;
The greenwood Nymphs incurred not bis lost delight;
Nor Echo. hidden in the tangled close,
Grieved that she could not mimic him affair."
he ceased not from our sight
Like him who, In the first glad flight Of Spring,
Fell as an eagle pierced with shafts from his OWE
wing.
LHb was NOT InyrSS! no, the minstrel lone
And reverend. the woodland singer boar,
Whom most she loved; nor had his office ceased
Inc walks OF men shall draw thy steps no more"
Softly. as from feast
The guest departs that bears low recall,
He went, and lett behind his harp and coronal.
"Return" she cried. "unto thine own returnI
TOO long the pilgrimage; too long the dream
In which, lest thou shouldst be companionless,
Unto the oracles thou hadst access
Iee sac cg groves that with my presence
Meadow and wilderness
All fair things ventured by the changing year,
Which now awoke in joy to welcome one most dear.
"Re comes"' declared the unseen ones that haunt
The dark recesses, the infnitude
or whispering old oaks and soughing pines.
"He comesi" the warders Of the forests shrines
Henceforth with us shall walk the underwood,
Till mertal ear divines
Its music added to our choral hymn,
Rising and falling far through archways deep and
The orchard fields, the hillside pastures green,
Put gladness on; the ripping harvest-wave
Ran Ike . smile, as II moment there
His SHADOW poised IN the midsummer air
the catasact took RsaIy sheen
sound OF welcome where
He came, and trembled, far as to the sea
1t moves from rock. ribbed heights where its dark
fountains be.
HIS presence orooded on the rolling plain,
And on the lake there fell sudden calm
His own tranquility; the mountain bowed
Its head, and felt ihe GOODNESS Of a cloud,
And murmured, he IS passingr' and again
Through all its frs the wind swept like psalm;
Its eagles, thundsr-orowed,
In that mist moulded shape their kinsman knew,
And circled high, and In his mantle SCARED fiom
view,
30 drew he to the living veil, which hung
OF OLD above the deeHs unimsged face,
And sought his own Henceforward he is free
OF vassaIage to that mortality
Which men have given sepulcher among
The pathways Of their kinda resting place.
Knelt the proud mother Of a mighty land
In tenderness, and came anon pumed band.
Come one by one the seasons meetly drest,
To sentinel the relics of their seer.
First SpriDg-upon whore head wreath was set
OF wind-dowers and the yellow violet
Advanced. Then Summer led his lovelest
OF months, one ever to the minstrel dear
(Her sweet eyes dewy wet)
June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwine
Next autum, like monarch. sad Of heart,
Came, tended by his melancholy days.
Purple he wore, and bore golden rod,
His scepter; and let fall upon the sod
Alone fringed gentan ere he would depart.
Scarce bad bus train gone darkling down the ways
When Winter thither trOd-
Winter, with beard and raiment blown BEFORE
That was go seeming like our poet, old and hoar.
What forms are these amid the pageant fair,
Harping with hands that falter2 what sad throng?
They wait in vain, 3 mournful brotherhood,
And listen where their laureled elder stood
"What cold thin atmosphere now hears thy song 2"
They ask, and long have wooed
The woods and waves that knew him, but can learn
Nausht save S.s, the hollow, haunting cry "e'Hrm'
In the Atlantic Msnthly-The poem read at the
Century Memorial Meeting.