Selections From American Poetry | Page 8

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?

I f so, all these as naught Eternity doth
scorn.

I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,
The black-clad cricket bear a second
part,