Whitman Town (part 3 of 3)

These were the central years of Whitman's life. He gave them almost whoUy to his work for the soldiers, living as simply and cheaply as he coidd, and working in the hospitals almost daily till the end of the war. He assisted constantly in dressing the soldiers' wounds, but he did far more by ministering to their wants in many other ways, and most of all by the health and strengfth and courage of his own personality. ' A surgeon who throughout the war had charge of one of the largest army hospitals in Washington,' says Dr. Bucke, in his Life of Whitman, * has told the present writer that (without personal acquaintance or any other than professional interest), he watched for many months Walt Whitman's ministerings to the sick and wounded, and was satisfied that he saved many lives.' There are few records, even in those years, of such simple and unselfish devotion as can be found in Whitman's Specimen Days, and in his unpremeditated letters, which have now been collected under the title The Wound'Dresser, At least one passage must be quoted from an eye-witness, Mr. John Swinton, telling of his hospital visits : ' I first heard of him among the sufferers on the Peninsula after a battle there. Subsequently I saw him, time and again, in the Washington hospitals, or wending his way there with basket or haversack on his arm, and the strength of beneficence suffusing his face. His devotion surpassed the devotion of woman. It would take a volume to tell of his kindness, tenderness, and thoughtfulness.

' Never shall I forget one night when I accompanied him on his rounds through a hospital, filled with those wounded young Americans whose heroism he has sung in deathless numbers. There were three rows of cots, and each cot bore its man. When he appeared, in passing along, there was a smile of affection and welcome on every face, however wan, ana his presence seemed to light up the place as it might be lit by the presence of the Son of Love. From cot to cot they called him, often in tremulous tones or in whispers ; they embraced him, they touched bis hand, they gazed at him. To one he gave a few words of cheer, for another he wrote a letter home, to others he gave an orange, a few comfits, a cigar, a pipe and tobacco, a sheet of paper or a postage stamp, all of which and many other things were in his capacious haversack. From another he would receive a dying message for mother, wife, or sweetheart ; for another he would promise to go on an errand ; to another, some special friend, ^ery low, he would give a manly farewell kiss. He did the things for them which no nurse or doctor could do, and he seemed to leave a benediction at every cot as he passed along. The lights had gleamed for hours in the hospital that night before he left it, and as he took his way towards the door, you could hear the voice of many a stricken hero calling, " Walt, Walt, Walt, come again I come again ! "'

Walt Whitman 689

Drum Taps, Whitman's poems of the war, was published in 1865, and the Sequel to Drum Taps, containing his memorial poems on Lincoln, and a few more war poems, late^ in the year. It is surprising that these attracted so little attention as they aid. Yet we must remember that it has always taken at least a generation for the ^neral public to accept any original form of rhythmic expression, especially a form so different from accepted standards, and apparently so uncouth, as Whitman's. Of the substance of the poems, their vividness and truth, it is unnecessary to speak here. But it may be noted in passing, that, while there is more of the war in his work than in that of any other poet, there is nowhere any touch of bitterness or even of hostility.

Toward the end of the war Whitman obtained a position as clerk in the Department of the Interior. Not long afterward the Secretary of the Interior, James Harlan, came across Whitman's copy of Leaves of Grass (the 1860 edition) which he was revising for republication, and at once discharged Whitman as ' the author of an indecent book.' Whitman soon obtained an equally good position in the office of the Attorney-General, but the incident called out a famous defence of Whitman and arraignment of Harlan, in W. D. O'Connor's pamphlet The Good Gray Poet, This defence and arraignment are so exaggerated in tone that they have probably done Whitman's reputation more harm than good, and have made people feel that anything written by a disciple of his must be taken with very large allowances. Yet the pamphlet is admirable at least for its intense loyalty, and for its title, which was a creation of genius. Whitman has been called ever since, and deservedly, * The Good Gray Poet.'

The new and revised edition (the fourth) of Leaves of Grass, with Drum Taps added, was published in 1867. In 1871 was published the fifth edition, with * Passage to India ' and other important additions. In 1872 Whitman was asked to give the Commencement poem at Dartmouth College, and he delivered ' As a strong bira on pinions free ' (now < Thou mother with thy equal brbod*). In * Passage to India ' and in the later poems that group themselves with it, we have Whitman's work under a somewhat new aspect. From the beginning he had said, ' I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soid,' and had insisted always on the unity of the two and on their equal claims. But both by temperament and by fixed intention he had expressed primarily the material side of things and of man (as he said, the side most neglected by other poets), glorying in the triumphs of modem industrialism and in the joys of physical health. Now (see the passages Quoted in notes on pages 546 and 590, and the whole of his own note on ' Passage to Inoia ' in the Complete Prose Works, pages 272-274, as well as the poem itself and those that follow), he insists most on the other aspect of the dual unity, on the spirit, that * laughs at what you call dissolution,' and knows it has the best of time and space. The changes which he made in the brief poem ' Assurances ' (page 553) from one edition to another, until it found its final form as given in the 1871 edition with ' Passage to India,' are typical of this development.

Whitman was one of the healthiest of men. Those who have described his work in the hospitals say that health and strength seemed to radiate from his presence. All his life he had Uvea a great deal in the open air, and in the hospital years he depended on his long walks about Washii^ton as his chief delight and relief. But by 1864 his health began to be broken down. He had the first illness of his life, caUed at first * hospital mauuria,' in the hot summer of that year. Dr. Piatt, in his life of Whitman, says also that through a scratch in his hand he was infected with septic poisoning from a wound he was helping to dress. This seemed to have only a temporary effect, but he was never entirely well afterward. In January, 1873, he had a paralytic stroke, which for a while disabled his left side completely. After a time he recovered somewhat, but could never move freely. For the first two years he suffered severely, and he was an invalid for the nineteen years that followed. His work at Washington was of course ended, and he had no source of income but his books, which hardly brought him anything.

During these years he lived at Camden, N. J., the home of George Whitman. Almost in poverty, until 1881, when the sale of his works began to brine^ him a small income, ^- which enabled him to live with some slight degree of comfort m a home of his own, - and in constant weakness and much of the time helplessness, he underwent a test such as few men have been subjected to, and one which was particularly severe for him, the lover of all physical joys and especially of free movement in the open air. He met this test with complete triumph. All who saw him at Camden - and his home became to some deg^e a goal of pilgrimage, especially in the last ten years of his life - bear witness to the sweetness and strength of the character that revealed itself in him.

The so-called ' Centennial Edition ' of Leaves of Grass was issued in 1876, with a second volume, composed partly of prose and partly of verse. By 1879 Whitman had partiaUy recovered firom his paralysis, and was aole to take a journey through the Western States in that year, and in the following year to Canada. In 1881 the seventh edition of Leaves of Grass was published by James R. Osg^ood & Co. of Boston, but six months after its publication, when some two thousand cdpies had been sold, the firm was threatened with prosecution by the Massachusetts District Attorney, and declined to continue the sale of the book. It was immediately after published at Philadelphia. In 1888 was added the collection called November Boughs, in 1891 were published Goodie My Fancy and the tenth edition of Leaves of Grass^ including these laist two additions. Whitman's health had been steadily declining again since 1885; he suffered a second shock of paralysis in 1888, but lived on, still cheerful and mentally active, and happy in a few devoted mends, until 1892, when he died, March 26. The small collection. Old Age Echoes, was added to his Leaves of Grass in the 1897 edition. Calamus (letters to his friend Peter Doyle) was published in 1897, The Wound Dresser in 1898, An American Primer and the IHary in Canada inlOH.

^^Tne question whether Walt Whitman's work is properly to be called poetry at all or not still ejQsts only in a few academic circles. It has always been largely a question of academic definitions. And while we must have some defimteness of conception, in order that our ideas may not become entirely vague and our words meaningless, it would be well in this case to imitate Whitman's own modesty when he says: 'Let me not dare, here or anywhere, for my own purposes, or any purposes, to attempt the definition of Poetry, nor answer the Question what it is. Like Religion, Love, Nature, while those terms are indispensable, ana we all give a sufficiently accurate meaning to them, in my opinion no definition that has ever been made sufficiently encloses the name Poetry.' It may oe added that one of the chief functions of any strongly original poet - or thinker - is to compel us to enlarge our definitions.

But even without departing greatly from the traditional conceptions of poetry, and certainly without abandoning the idea that material for poetry, however noble or beautiful, does not truly become poetry until it has been put mto rhythmic form, we are now beginning frankly to accept Whitman's work as poetry. We no longer need the excellent authority of John Addington Symonds, a critic competent above most others and especiallv devoted to beauty of form in verse, to tell us that Whitman's verse is wonderfully rhytnmical, and that his rhythms are truly and often delicately fitted to what he has to express. It is onlj needful really to read Whitman, a thing which is often at first difficult to do knd which people in general have not even yet learned to do - to read him in the mass - and above all to read him aloud, which is the final test of poetry - in order to feel the strength and fitness of his rhythms, and to realize that they are not the rhythms of prose, nor of that bastard form called poetic prose, but are distinctly metrical rhythms, that is, the rhythms of verse. For the most part, they hold amonff verserhythms somewhat the same place as the recitative and the chant (names which he often gives to his poems) hold in music. He has also, when he chooses, the lyric note. The distinction between his recitative and his lyric, when he uses them together, as in ' Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,' or * When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,' is just the same and just as clearly marked as that between regular lyrics and regular blank verse.

It has taken people so long, however, to settle for themselves, consciously or nncon sciously, this preliminary question of whether Whitman's work was poetry at all or not, that they have only just begun to appreciate his power and to give him biB true lanlb

Sidney Lanier 691

Frofessor Trent, in his recent History of American LiUrcUurt (1903), calls him ' too large a man and poet for adequate comprehension at present.' Moreover, Americans have been somewhat alienated from Whitman by the attitude of the best foreign critics, who have found in him the one and only poet truly characteristic of America. Not really having taken the trouble to know Whitman, but having conceived of him and his work as something rough, Towdyish, uncultured and altogether materialistic and sensual, Americans were naturally offended that he, rather than men like Longfellow, Lowell, and Emerson, should be taken as typical of America. We felt that all the chief American poets (except Foe, the only one whose work could have been written elsewhere than in America) were typical; and that the breadth of culture in such men as Longfellow and Lowell made them only the more completely typical. We naturally sought in the typical American poet an expression of our whole life and character, including (as Whitman himself has said somewhere) our inheritance of all the best from past ages and foreign lands; while the foreign critic, as naturaUy, sought in him the expression of only that part of our life which is entirely new and stiunge - and if uncouth and rude, so much Uie better. We have now come to know Whitman more truly; to know that he was anything but the rowdy and materialist of our first conceptions; to know that while he did not lack culture in the narrower sense (having read and thoroughly digested Emerson, having understood Carlyle and in his own thought refuted and gone beyond him, having won some genuine knowledge of Fichte's thought and Hegel's, if not directlv of Plato's, and having nourished himself on the few greatest writers, Rhakspere, the Biole, and Homer - even though in translation, some genuine knowledge of which is better than our usual pretence at knowledge of the original) he also had that broader and better first-hand culture which comes from true htmian relations with many living men and women, forming out of them a character which stood some of the hardest tests of life. We have also become more ready to admit that those material aspects of our life which primarily, though by no means exclusively, he tried to express, are in their crudeness and power trmy characteristic of America. And now, knowing him better, we see that he has expressed not only some material aspects, but also some essential ideals of America, as no other poet has: among them, our sense of freedom and independence (his work is the logical outcome of Emerson's address on 'The American Scholar'), o;ir conception of real democratio equality, our intense individualism yet sense of union oae with another in a great whole.

Sidney Lanier

Sidney Lanier was bom at Macon, 6a., February 3, 1842. He came of a family of musicians, the earliest known ancestor having been attached to the court of Queen Euair betb, and his son and grandson havinf^ been directors of music imder Charles I and Charles II. The grandson was one of the incorporators and the first Marshal of the Society of Musicians under Charles II, and there were four others of the name of Lanier imong the incorporators. Thomas Lanier came to America in 1716, and settled in Virginia. Lanier's rather was a lawyer, living at Macon, Ga., and his mother was a Virginian of Scotch descent, of a family distinguished in politics and also skilled in music.

Sidnev Lanier had from his childhood a strong ambition, and we may even say eenius, for music. As a boy he seemed able to leam any instrument without instruction, and oould play the flute, violin, organ, piano, and g^tar before he could fairlv read. His greatest passion was for the vioun, but his father persuaded him to abandon it. His sensitive nature was hardly able to bear the exaltation produced in him by its notes. In deference to his Other's wishes, he devoted himself chiefly to the flute.

When he was fourteen years old, he entered Oglethorpe CoUege (or * University,' as it called itself), in the sophomore class. After losing a year by outs^e work, he graduated at the age of eighteen, sharing the highest honors for scholarship with one of his classmatei^ and was imnmiately appointed tutor in the ooUege. This was in 1860. In 1861 he ^ve up his position to volunteer as a priirate in the CoiSederate army. He was in the battles of

Seven Finest Malvern Hill, and others. The following year his younger brother, Clifford^ joined Imn, and both served as privates (though promotion was offered to each at dijSerent times, and to Sidney Lanier three times), in order not to be separated from eaeh other. They were transferred to the Signal Service in 1862, and in 1863 their company was mounted and served in Virginia and North Carolina. Finally they were appomted signal officers on blockade-runners, and thus necessarily separated. Sidney Lanier was (saptored, with his vessel, and imprisoned for five months at Point Lookout. In February, 1^5, he was released, and returned home to Georgia on foot, with his flute, from which he had never been separated. His strength was seriously impaired, and though he recovered from a dangerous illness of six weeks, the beginning of consumption, from which his soother had just died, was already upon him. The rest of his life was a struggle against the disease.

He was still only twenty-three years old, and had not found his vocation in life, though strong musical and literary ambitions were already awake in him. But he was led to think that music was not a serious career, not worth devoting his life to. While working as clerk in a hotel, he took up and completed in three weeks of April, 1867, his nov^ I'iger Lilies (begun at Burwell's Bay in 1863, and continued in 1865), and in May took the story to New York to be published. It is a picture of the war, hastily drawn, and of course somewhat crude, it expresses strongly, however, the horror of war which had constantly gprown in him during the progress of that struggle which he would not abandon until it was ended. He describes war as ' that strange, terrible flower of which the most wonderful specimen yet produced was gprown by two wealthy planters of North America.' * It is supposed by some,' he goes on (the passage is quoted in Dr. Ward's MemanaT), * that the seed of this American specimen (now deiML) yet remains in the land ; but as for this author (who, with many friends, suffered from the unhealthy odors of the plant), he could find it in his heart to wish fervently that this seed, if there be verily any, might perish in the germ, utterly out of sight and lu e and memory, and out of the remote hope of resurrection, forever and ever, no matter in whose granary they are cherished ! ' The novel was published, but had little success. He returned to the South, and taught school for a year. In 1867 he was married to Miss Mary Day, of Macon. For five years following, he studied and practised law with his father.

During this time he haa written but little in verse, yet some of that little was of exquisite quality. The first poems we have are those of 18o5, * The Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson ' and * The Tournament,' the second of which he used with some alterations in his * Psalm of the West,' eleven years later. The lyric ' Night and Day ' belong to 1866, and in 1868 the * Jacquerie ' was planned and partly written. In 1868 he wrote also a lyric, ' Life and Song,' the last two lines of which have been often quoted in speaking of his life and of the poetry which was as yet hardly beg^un : -

He could not remain devoted to the law, however. He felt more and more that his life was to be brief, and that he must do something in art, which is lasting.

* Were it not for some considerations which make such a proposition seem absurd in the highest degree,' he wrote to his wife early in 1873, ' I would think that I am shortly to die, and that my spirit hath been singing its swan-Song before dissolution. All day my soul hath been cutting swiftly into Uie great space of the subtle, unspeakable deep^ driven by wind after wind of heavenly melody.' He determined to devote himself for what was left of his life to music and literature. He tried New York, but finally settled in Baltimore, in December of this year, 1873, having obtained an engagement there as first flute in the Peabody Symphony Orchestra. He wrote to his father, who had protested against his purpose as unwise : * My dear father, think how, for twenty years, throngh poverty, through pain, through weariness, through sickness, through the uncongenial aimosphere of a farcical coUege and of a bare army and then of an exacting business life, through all the discoura^ment of being wholly unacquainted with literary people and literary ways, - I say, think how, in spite of all these depressing circumstances, and of a thousand more which I could enumerate, these two figures of music and of poetry have steadily kept in my heart so that I could not banish them. Does it not seem to you as to me, that I begin to have the right to enroU myself among the devotees of these two sublime arts, after having followed them so long and so humbly, and through so much bitterness ? ' His father felt the force of this appeal, and generously helped Luiier, so far as he could, to carry out his ambitions.

At Baltimore he found what he had craved for, the opportunity to hear good music, and access to extensive libraries. In the comparative freedom and exhilaration of this new life were written the first poems really characteristic of his mature work, among them the beautiful tributes to Mrs. Lanier, ' My Springs,' * In Absence,' ' Acknowledgment,' and ' Laus Mariae.' It was in the summer of 1874, in August, that he wrote his first poem which attracted atttention, * Com.' This poem opens with stanzas almost as beautiful as anything in Lanier's work, describing the full richness of summer in the South. As a whole, however, it is not entirely successful. The symphonic structure is not sustained to the end, and much of the last part of the poem is given to a description of the effect on Southern farmers of cotton speculation, ana especially of borrowing money at ruinous rates to plant cotton instead of com. That subject was quite in place in Lanier s dialect poems, * Jones's Private Argyment,' and ' Thar 's more in the man than thar is in the land,' but here, in a poem of the quality of ' Com,' it jars, and in both substance and expression is quite out of harmony with the rest of the poem. * Com,' though it is interesting historically as having won for Lanier his first recognition when it appeared in LippincoU*s Magazine for February, 1875, and also for its attempt to express fitly in poetry the beauty of waving fields of our chief American grain, must, in final critical judgpnent, be accounted a failure. This is the less to be reg^tted because Lanier immediately after succeeded, with ' The Symphony,' in the chief things which he had failed to do in 'Com.' In 'The Symphony,' published only four months later in the same magazine, he created a poem of real narmonic and symphonic structure throughout, and of far greater musical beauty than he had even attempted in ' Com ; ' and he achieved the amazing tour de force of making real poetry out of the money question. A little later, in a brief lyric, ' The Waving of the Com,' he expresses the full beauty of the cornfield.

' The Symphony ' won him the friendship of Bayard Taylor, - a friendship which grew as the two men came to know each other better, and which is recorded in the letters that passed between them. His letters to another firm friend, Mr. Gibson Peacock, are also preserved, and are of great interest. He was devoted to a serious study of his two arts, and especially of the relations between them. Often he was compelled to interrupt his work either to g^ in search of health to Florida or Pennsylvania or the mountains of North Carolina, or to do hack writing for a mere living. But he persisted, with help and encouragement from his father and brother, from his friends, and most of all from his wife. To her he wrote: ' ** Que mon nom soit fletri, que la France soit libre! " quoth Danton ; which is to say, interpreted by my environment : Let my name perish - the poetry is good poetry and the music is gjood music, and beauty dieth not, and the heart that needs it wiU find it.' He was chosen in 1876, at the instance of Bayard Taylor, to write the words of the Centennial Cantata, for which the music was composed by Dudley Buck. In this year he wrote also the beautiful ' Evening Song,' possibly his finest lyric; the poem ' Clover,' which ranks between * Com ' and * The Symphony,' and has something of the qualities of both ; * The Waving of the Com,' just spoken of; and our finest Centennial poem (not forgettine Lowell's and Whitman's), the ' Psalm of the West.'

Meanwhile he was lecturmg for schools and for private classes, writing descriptive articles in prose for LippmcotVs Magazine, making a book on Florida for a railroad company (puDlished by tiie Lippinootte in 1876), and cheerfully doing whatever he could to earn himself a living and wm some leisure for original writing. In 1877 was published the first collection of his Poems, and this year was the one most productive of new pieoM, though of brief ones. Such a condensed bit of lyric as *- The Stirrup-Cup/ however, is w<^th many a long poem. To this year belong also the ' Song of the Chattahoochee ' (one of his most popular lyrics, though perhaps not ultimately to be counted among the few of his very best), two of his best brief nature poems, ' Tampa Robins ' and * From the Flats ' (the last is bound to haunt forever all true lovers of the mils), ' The Mocking-Bird,' ' The Hee,'

His two best ballads, ' The Revenge of Uamish ' and ' How Love looked for Hell,' belong to 1878-79. The first seems to me unsurpassed in narrative technique. Objectivity can no farther go. It is a masterpiece of absolute detachment, yet of wonderful vividness. The second is also remarkable for the way in which it clothes abstractions with life, and makes vivid the vague idea that where Love ccmies, there Hell cannot be. These, each unique in its kind, and, belonging to the same year, his chief masterpiece in still another kind which is peculiarly his own, being a new creation, - * The Marshes of Glynn,' - show the many possibilities of that talent which was toot to reach its full development.

Bayard Tavlor died in December, 1878, and Lanier wrote the poem * To Bayard Taylor,' with its beautiful picture of the Elysium of the poets, its touches of Elizabethan phrasing, and, toward the end, its strong, condensed expression of the hard conditions and the struggle which were bearing heavily upon Lanier himself, but from which he was soon to escape into that open sun-lit land of the last two stanzas.

He had work still to do, however. Ei^ly in 1879 he was appointed Lecturer on l^glish Literature in the Johns Hopkins University. This brought him the happy certainty of a fixed though small income. For his courses of 1879-§0 and 1880-81 he prepared the lectures which, in revised form, now constitute his two most important prose volumes. The Science of English Verse and The English Novel and its Development. He made an engagement with the Scribners to complete a series of books for boys, of which four were published, two after his death: The Boy's Froissart (1878), The Boy's King Arthur (1980), The Boy's Mahinogion (1881), and The Boy's Percy (1882). In the winter of 188(^-81 he was barely able to p^et through with twelve lectures at the University. The poem - Sunrise ' was written with a fever temperature of 104, when, says Mrs. Lanier, < the hand which first pencilled its lines had not strength to carry nourishment to the lips.' A last attempt to prolong his life was made by trying tent life in the mountains of North Carolina, but it was unsuccessful, and he died September 7, 1881.

Though younger by almost a generation than our chief elder poets, Lanier seems to be taking ms rank almost without question amongthem. He did not complete his work. To his poet friend, Paul H. Hayne, he wrote: * How I long to sing a thousand songs that oppress me, unsung, - is inexpressible. Tet the mere work that brings hteeA gives me no time.' When he died, his talent was growing. Unlike Foe, if he Imd lived he would probably have given us greater poems than he did. It is therefore hard to sav what would have proved reaUy characteristic of him had he completed any large mass of wotk. As it is, he has given us some beautiful and haunting lyrics, sometimes with touches of strange fancies like those in * Night and Day ' and the < Ballad of Trees and the Master ; ' he has written two of our finest ballads, botii tmique in kind; in the * Psalm ^ the West ' he has tnritten a poem of America that for range and beauty and historical completeneis, and for the sweep of the whole from its superb opening up to just near the close, where it fails a little, deserves to stand beside or even above Lowell's * Commemoration Ode ' and Whitman's ' Thou mother with thy equal brood.' And finally, there is one thii^ which, even in the small amount of his wonc, we may call distinctively characteristic, - the way of writing found in two poems so different in substance as ' The Symphony ' and

* The Marshes of Glynn.' * Whatever turn I have for art,' he wrote to Paul H. Hayne, ' is purely musical, poetry beine^ with me a mere tangent into which I shoot sometimes. . . . The very deepest of my life has been filled with music, which I have studied and cultivated far more than poetry.' Something of this musfo-passion has woven itself into his poetry. His theory that English verse has for its essential basis not accent, hut strict mosdoal quantity, is almost certainly a mistaken one. But the book he wrote to prove this mistaken theory is by far the most suggestive and inspiring that has ever dealt with the technique of verse. And in his own work he has written poetry more rich in music than we haid before. He has learned all that there was to be learned from his predecessors, among them Swinburne, and then he has found for himself new melodies, and has taught something of them to the poets of a younger generauon, - notably Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey.

Index Of First Lines

A batter 'd, wreok'd old man, <W1. A beautiful and happy girl, 266. Aboard at a ship's helm, 586. A carol closing sixty-nine - a r^um6 - a repetition, e07. A child said WTicU is the grass ? fetching it to me with full hands, 533. A Christian ! going, gone t 272. A cloud, like that the old-time Hebrew saw, 340. A crazy bookcase, placed before, 387. A dull uncertain brain, 93. A fleet with flags arrayed, 254. Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, foreyer t 43. Ah, Clemence ! when I saw thee last, 308. A hundred years t they 're quickly fled, 467. A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands, 572. All are architects of Fate, 149. All as God Mfills, who wisely heeds, 302. Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too, 60. Along a river-side, I know not wliere, 460. Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold, 390. Am I a king, that I should call my own, 256. A mighty Hand, from an exhaustlesa Urn, 33. A mist was driving down tiie British Channel, 166. Among the thoosands who with bail and cheer,

363. And as the light divides the daik, 98. And Ellen, whenr the gray-beard years, 50. And how could you dream of meeting? 6£8. And I behold onoe more, 68. And now gentlemen, 689. Andrew Rykman *s dead and gone, 307. And what is so rare as a day in June? 463. And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling

96. Annie and Rhoda, sisters twain, 339. Announced by an the trumpets of the sky, 72. A noiseless patient spider, 690. An old man bending I come among new faoes,

263. As sings the pine-tree in the wind, 96. As sinks the sun behind yon alien hills, 608. As sunbeams stream through liberal space, 67. As the birds come in the spring, 267. As the Greek's signal flame, by antique reoords told, 607. As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods, 674. A subtle chain of countless rings, 87. At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 286. At midnight, in the month of June, 43. At mom - at noon - at twilight dim, 46. Atom from atom yawns as far, 91. A train of gay and clouded days, 91. At the last, tenderly, 566. A vision as of crowded streets, 245. A wind came up out of the sea, 212. Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 366. Ay, thou art w^oome, heaven's delicions breath!

first behold, 94. Bowing thyself in dust before a Book, 468. Bring me my broken harp, he said, 306: Build me straight, O worthy Master! 161.

Index Of First Lines

83. Burly, dosing humble-bee, 63. But Nature whistled with all her winds, 91. But never yet the man was found, 90. By a route obscure and lonely, 48. By his evening fire the artist, 150. By the bivouac's fitful flame, 672. By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 68.

grave, 617. Come, dear old comrade, you and 1, 386. Come forth t my catbird caUs to me, 497. Come, I will make the continent indissoluble, 661. Come, let us plant the apple-tree, 22. Come my tan-faced children, 669. Come, said my soul, 602.

Daily the bending skies solicit man, 90. Darest thou now O soul, 696. Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, 87. Day by day for her darlings to her much she added way, 417. Dear friends, who read the world aright, 283. Dear Sir, - Your letter come to han', 486. Dear Wendell, why need count the years, 623. Death, thou 'rt a cordial old and rare, 621. Delicate cluster! flag of teeming life! 689. Did you ask dulcet rhjrmes from me? 679. Down *mid the tangled roots of things, 496. Down swept the chill wind from the mountain

£f I a song or two could make, 484. Entranced I saw a vision in the cloud, 618. Ere, in the northern gale, 11. Ere pales in Heaven the morning star, 623. Ere we Oomera cleared, a coward cried, 618. Ever the poet from the land, 94.

sage for you, 664. From east and west across the horixon's edge, 608. From fall to spring, the russet aoom, 73. From Paomanok starting I fly like a bird, STL From purest wells of English undeflled, 8S8. From the hills of home forth looking, tax beneath woven, 622. God makes seoh nights, all white an* atill, 472. God sends his teachers unto every age, 415. God's love and peace be with thee, where, 288. Gone, gone, - sold and gone, 268. Good-bye my Fancy! 609. Good-bye, proud world! I 'm going home, 68. Go, speed the stars of Thought, 93. Go thou to thy learned task, 94. Grandmother's mother: her age, I goese, 386. Great men in the Senate sate, 99. Great soul, thou sittest with me in my room, 41L Great Truths are portions of the Soul of man, 41L Guvener B. is a sensible man, 488.

Index Of First Lines

How many llTes, made beautiful and sweet, 312. Ho! workers of the old time styled, 273. How solemn Isweeping this dense black tide, 686. How strange are the freaks of memory! 486. How strange the sculptures that adorn these

411. I believe that the copies of verses I *ve spun, 894. I celebrate myself, and sing myself, 638. I do not count the hours I spend, 90. I dream'd in a dream I saw a city invincible, 663. I du believe in Freedom's cause, 436. I dwelt alone, 61.

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom, 240. If he be a nobler lover, take him! 628. If I could put my woods in song, 100. I framed his tongue to music, 93. If the red slayer think he slays, 88. If thought unlock her mysteries, 96. I gazed upon the glorious sky, 14. I had a little daughter, 429. I have a fancy: how shall I bring it, 628. I have read, in some old, marvellous tale, 106. I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, this puzzle the New World, 604. I heard the trailing garments of the Night, 106. I heard the train's shrill whistle call, 290. I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions, 662. I heed not that my earthly lot, 41. I know not what the future hath, 814. I left my dreary page and sallied forth, 91. I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaie, 241. I like a church; I like a cowl, 64. ni flts the abstemious Muse a crown to weave, 61. I love the old melodious lays, 280. I love to hear thine earnest voice, 866. I love to start out arter night *s begun, 478. I marvel how mine eye, ranging the Night, 619. Immortal Love, forever full, 326. I mourn no more my vanished years, 801. I myself, myself ! behold me! 194.

bracken lay, 623. I understand the large hearts of heroes, 641. I wait and watch; before my eyes, 306. I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made,

61. Long I followed happy guides, 84. Long, too long America, 578. Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, 616. Look out! Look out, boys! Clear the track! 405. Lord of all being! throned afar. 377. Lo! 't is a gala night, 47. Lovo, 91. Low and mournful be the strain, 99.

618. My day began not till the twilight fell. 524. My heart, I cannot still it, 527. My heart was heavy, for its trust had been, 275. My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die,

Nay, blame me not; I might have spared, 380. Nay. do not dream, designer daric, 609. 'Neath blue-bell or streamer, 39. Next drive we o'er the slimy-weeded sea, 618. New England's poet, rich in love as years, 683. yigbton the prairies. 564.

292. O even-handed Nature! we confess, 382. O fairest of the rural maids! 9. Of all the rides since the birth of time, 296. O Friends! with whom my feet have trod, 314. Often I think of the beautiful town, 210. Of that blithe throat of thine from aretic bleuk and blank, 606. Oft have I seen at some cathedral door, 240^ Oh! could I hope the wise and pare in heart, 7. Oh for one hour of youthful joy! 366. Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 3L Oh what is Heaven but the fellowship, 92. O lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare, 1S9. O little feet! that such long years, 289. O lonely bay of Trinity, 301. O Love Divine, that stooped to share, 877. O Love! O Life! Our faith and siglit, 386. O magnet-South! O glistening perfumed South!

my South! 666. O moonlight deep and tender, 412. O Mother EartJi! upon thy lapv 260. O mother of a mighty race, 21. Onaway! Awake, beloved! ISi. On bravely through the sunshine and tiie showers! 92. Once git a smeU o' musk into a draw, 480. Once it smiled a silent deU, 44. Once more, O all-adjusting Death! 362. Once more on yonder laurelled height, BOA. Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 20. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, bay, 364. One of your old-world stories. Uncle John, 24. One's-self I sing, a simple separate person, 667. On prince or bride no diamond stone, 9B. On sunny slope and bee<dien swell, lOS. On the beach at night, 690. On the isle of Penikese, 342. On woodlands ruddy with antowt 89. Opening one day a book of mine, 888.

Isdkx Of First Lines

gently to me, 578. Orer his head were the maple buds, 94. Over his keys the musing oiganist, 463. Over our manhood bend the skies, 468. Over sea, hither from Niphon, 667. Over the carnage rose prophetic a voice, 578. Over the monstrous shambling sea, 688. Over the Western sea hither from Niphon come, wheeled, 617. Poet and friend of poets, if thy glass, 362. Poet! I come to touch thy lanoe with mine, 253. Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to

Reader - gentle - if so be, 388. Recorders ages henoe, 661. Rivermouth Books are fair to see, 310. Romance, who loves to nod and sing, 40. RiK>my Eternity, 91.

pride, 378. She paints with white and red the moon, 91. Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen, 96. Shot gold, maroon and violet, das«|iiig silver, emerging, 607. Singing ray days, 590. Six thankful weeks, - and let it be, 6& Slow toiling upward from tb^miafj vale, 386. Small is the theme of the following Chant, V7, Small the theme of my chant, 587. So faUen! so lost! the light withdrawn, 282. Solemnly, mournfully, 12L Some die too late and some too soon, 348. Some of your hurts you have cured, 94. Somewhat back from the village street, 120» So nigh is grandeur to our dust, 99. So when there came a mighty cry of Land ! 619. Speak and tell us, our Ximeaa, looking nortl^ ward far away, 277. Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! 106. Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou, 15 Spirit that form'd this scene, 606. Stars of the summer night! 111. States! 66L

Statesman, I thank thee! and, if yet dissent, 306. Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest, 2SC. Still sits the Hohool-house by the road, 337. Still thirteen years : 't is autumn now, 462. Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which its Southern way, 270. The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see, 41. The commonplace I sing, 608. The cordage creaks and rattles in the wind, 418. The day is oold, and dark, and dreary, HI. The day is done, and the darkness, 116. The Dervish whined to Said, 92. Thee for my recitative, 604. Tha elder folks shook hands at last, 327. The electric nerve, whose instantaneous thrill jO Thf" free winds told him what they knew, 98.

liudflre, 449. Ttiero In a quiet spirit in theae wooda, 102. There In Uryant, aa quiet, aa cool, and aa dignlfled, 444. There In Hawthorne, with genius ao ihrinking wit. 4A2. There waN a child went forth every day, 682. Ttiore WAN a young man in DoNton town, 360. Tliert* WAN novor a leaf on bush or tree, 466. The rifling iiKMm has hid the stars, HI. The river hemmed with leaning trees, 341. Th«« robin laughed in the orange>tree, 620. The rttblns sang in the orchard, the buds into

ItloNRoniN grew, 336. The rounde<l world is fair to see, 77. Tlie Nc«a awoke at midnight from ita sleep, M6. The sea is the road of the bold, 94. TlidNt* are the gardeuN of the Desert, these, 18. Till* neml that waatefiil autumn oaat, 366. 11i<*«e pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were

Iw elood tfaongU it Bo ilB, tL The aonliglit gUttera keen and bffgltt, 99L The aoB aet, but aet not hi» hope, 9t. The ana that brief Deoember day, 91fi. The tkia riaea, tbe tide fUla, 9M. The time baa been that these wild aoUtodea, S. Tbe wind la roistering oat of doors, 609. Tbe work of the Lord by nlg^t, 98. The works of hnman artlfloe aoon tire, lOft. Tbe young Bndymion aleepa Bndymk»*a aleem

246. They pat their finger on their lip, 96w Thick-aprinlded banting! flag of atars! 680. Thine eyea still ahined for me, tboaf^ far, 69. Think me not unkind and rude, 62. Thia ancient aihrer. bowl of mine, it teUa of good old timea, 880. Thia la our plaee of meeting; opposite, 809. Thia la the Arsenal. From floor to celling, 114. Thia la the forest primeval. The mnrmoilng

402. This shining moment is an edifloe, 91. Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 16. Thou fooliah Haflz! Say, do churls, 96. Though loath to grieve, 80. Though love repine, and reaaon chafe, 96. Though old the thought and oft exprest, 499. Thou Mother with thy equal brood, 696. Thou shouldst have sung tbe swan-aong for the low, 406. Thou unrelenting Past! 16. Thou wast all that to me, love, 46. Thou wast tbe fairest of all man-made things, 63r Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, 601 Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild, 9 Thou, who wouldst wear the name, 29. Thou wouldst be loved? - then let thy heart, 46. Thraah away, you *11 hev to rattle, 481. Three Silences there are: the first of speech, SOft. Thy love thou senteat oft to me, 423. Thy summer voice, Musketaquit, 87. Thy trivial harp will never pleaae, 81. 'T is like stirring living embeia when, at efghtj,

284. To clothe the fiery thought, 94. To heal his heart of long-time pain, 926, T6 him who in the love of Nature holds, 1. Too young for love ? 404. To range, deep-wrapt, along a heavenly height,

True Brahmin, in the morning meadows wet, 94. Truth : So the frontlet's older legend ran, 806. Try the might the Muse affords, 93. Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of

Unbar the door, since thou the Opener art, 96. Under a spreading oheetnut-tree, 106. Up from the meadows rich with com, 800. Up the streets of Aberdeen, 275.

60. We count the broken lyres that rest, 873. We may not climb the heavenly steeps, 825. We praise not now the poet's art, 312. We saw the slow tides go and come, 843. What best I see in thee, 605. What care I, so they stand the same, 86. What fairings will ye that I bring? 459. What fieoks the outer gray beyond, 824. What heartache - ne'er a hill! 621. What is so rare as a day in June? 453. What say the Bells of San Bh», 268. What visionary tints the year puts on, 424. When a deed is done for Freedom, through the

When breezes are soft and sides are fair, 4. When descends on the Atlantic, 116. Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 212. When I heard at the close of the day, 662. When I heard the leam'd astronomer, 679. When I peruse the conquer'dfame of heroes, 66& When I remember them, those friends of mine,

246. When I think of my beloved, 188. When I was a beggarly boy, 600. When I was bom, 85. When legislators keep the law, 868. When life hath run its largest round, 366. When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, 661. When the full-grown poet came, 603. When the hours of Day are numbered, 105. When the pine tosses its cones, 66. When wise Minerva still was young, 466. Where are the Poets, unto whom belong, 257. Where in its old historic splendor stands, 866,

397. Whether is better, the gift or the donor ? 67. Whispers of heavenly death murmur'd I hear, 588. White clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep,

286. White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest, 268. Whither? Albeit I foUow fast, 463. Whither, midst falling dew, 3. Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human, 689. Who Cometh over the hills, 600. Who gave thee, O Beauty, 76. Who of all statesmen is his country's pride, 862. Why, who makes much of a miracle ? 662. With a glory of winter sunshine, 360. With husky-haughty lips, O Sea! 606. With snow-white veil and garments as of flame,

Tes, faith is a goodly anchor, 463. Tes, sometimes to the sorrow-stricken, 92. Tet, in the maddening maze of things, 314. Ton mountain's side is black with night, 286. Ton bards of ages hence! when you refer to me.

Index Of Titles

TlM Pn^er of (WhHtier), MS. Al AanMf, »(mg from (Poe>, 3». Aladdte (Lowell), MM. AD Beie (H^knea), a»4. AMTiea aiasteg, I bear ( WMCaw AAonc tlie HiUa (WbHtier), 330. Aiqr Wantwortb ( Wliittiar), aM. Anacreon, The Lfra of (Hofaaea), Andrew Ryknum's Frajrer (ITbiltfter), aV7. Angela, Footatepa of (Lougf allow), IM. Angela of Baena Vfota, The (Wliittier), 277. Annabel Lee (Poe), 56. Annie, For (Poe), 56.

Annie and Rboda, je« Tbe Slatara ( Wblttier), 38i. Antiquity of Freadom, The (Bryant), 20. Apology, The (Bnier»on), 02. April (Whittler), 2M. Arlaea at I.aat (Wblatler), 291. Arrow and the Song, The (Longfellow), 120. Amenal at 9prlngfleld, The (Longfellow), 114^ Art and Nature (Longfellow), 104. Aa a fltrong Bird on Pinions tree, see Thon Mother

(Whitman), 6M. Aaaaranee»(Wbltnan), 6fi9. Aa the Ontik'n Mgnal Flame (Whitman), 007. Aa toilaonie I wandered Virgln4a*a wooda (WMtman), 074. AatraRa (Wbittier;, 285. At a Meeting of Prienda (Rolmea), STB. At Vventlda ( Wblttier), 347. At the BnniA Centennial (Txywell), 467. At the ftatnrday anb (Holmea), 309. Anf Wiedersehen (Lowell), 461. Aant, My (Holmea), a&7. Aoapex (Lowell), 027. Autocrat, Our (Whittler), 347. Autograph, An (Whittler), 3S0. Autograph, For an (Lowell), 400. Autumn Walk, My (Bryant), 80. Autumn Wooda (Bryant), 11. Ar9MMriM(roe),46.

211. Birthday of Daniel Webster (Holmes), S6S. Bivouac on a Mountain Side(Wliilinan>, BR9. Bohemian Hjrmn, Tbe (Kmerson), 96L Borrowing (:&nerson), 91. Boston Hymn (Emerson), 96. Botanist (Emerson), 94. Boys, The (Holmes), 374. Brahma (S^neraon), 88. Breakfas^Table Series, Epilogue totiie<HolBMa)^

387. Bridge, The (Longfellow), 110. Broadway Pageant, A (Whitman), 567. Brooklyn Ferry. Crossing (Whitman), 5B8w Broomstick Train, The (Holmes), 406. Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Car^faie

(Holmes), 378. Brown of Ossawatomie (Wbittier), 302. Bryant on his Birthday (Wbittier), 312. Bryant's Seventieth Birthday (Holmes), 382. B. Sawin, Esq., A Second Letter from (Lowell),

436. Bnena Ylsta, The Angels of (Wbittier), 277. Builders, The (LongfeUow), 149. Building of the Ship, Tbe (Longfellow), 16L Bunker-Hill Battle, Grandmother's Story of

374. Bums Club, For the Meeting of the (Holmes), 0B7. Bust of Oeneral Orant, On a (Lowell), 690. By the Bivouac's Fitful Flame (Whitman), 572. By the Lakeside, Summer (Whittier), 286.

660. Captain ! my Captoin ! (Whitman), Wl. C^ariUon, The Betfiy of Bruges : (Longfellow), 118. Carol closing Siztjr-nine, A (Whitman), 607. Case! la (Emerson), 95. Cassandra Southwi<dE (Whittier), 267. Cavalry crossing a Ford (Whitman), 572. Centennial Hymn (Whittier), 346. Centennial Ode, see Ode for the Fourth of July

(Lowell), 518. Certain Civilian, To a (Whitman), 579. Chambered Nautilus, The (Holmes), 808. Changeling, The (Lowell), 429. Channing (W. H.), Ode inscribed to (Bmerson),

80. Charles Eliot Norton, To (Lowell), 500. Chattahoochee, Song of the (Lanier), 631. Chaucer (Longfellow), 245. Children (Lo^ellow), 150. Children's Hour, The (Longfellow), 232. Child's Reminiscenoe, A, see Out of tbe cradle

252. City in the Sea, The (Foe), 42. Clear Midnight, A (Whitman), 606. Climacteric (Emerson), 95. Clock on the Stairs, The Old (Longfellow), 190. CoUseum, The (Poe), 45. Columbus (Lowell), 418. Columbus, Prayer of (Whitman), 601. Columbus, Sonnets on (Lanier), 617. Come, said my Soul (Whitman), 602. Come up from the fields, fktber (Whitman), 573. Commemoration, Ode Recited at the Harvard

Anniversary of the Fight at (Lowell), 508. Concord Hynm (Emersony, 68. Concord Ode (Emerson), 88. Conductor Bradley (Whittier), MO. Conqueror Worm, Tbe (Poe), 47. Contentment (Holmet), 871. Contrast, A (Lowell), 4S8. Copyright, International (Lowell), AM. ixirii. The Waving of the (Lanier), 617. Com Song, The (Whittier), 280.

657. Crossing Brool^yn Ferry (Whitman), 653. Cross of Snow, The (Longfellow), 257. Cumberland, The ^Longfellow), 235. Curfew (Longfellow), 121. Curfew, After the (Holmes), 404.

Dandelion, To the (Lowell), 417. Daniel Webster, Birthday of (Holmes), 866. Dante (Longfellow), 118,240. Darest Thou now O-Soul (¥niitm8n), BBS, Davenport, Abraham (Whittier), 323. Daybreak (Longfellow), 212. Day is Done, The (Longfellow), 115. DayUght and Moonlight (LongifoUow), 106. Days (Emerson), 87. Day's Ration, The (Bmerson), 65. Deacon's Masterpiece, The (Hehnes), 868. Dead House, The (Lowell), 468. Dead Ship of Harpswell, The (Whittier), 801. Death, Hymn to (Bryant), 7. Death of Linooln, The (Bryant), 81. Death of Queen Mercedes (Lowell), 622. Death's Valley (Whitman), 608. Dedication, Songs ef Labor (Whittier), 282. Delicate Cluster (Whitman), 660. Dirge (Emerson), quoted, 62 ncrte, and 665. Divina Commedia (LongfeUow), 240. Dorothy Q. (Holmes), 886. Dream-Land (Poe), 48. Dream within a Dream, A (Foe), 41. Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson, The (Lnl«r), 611.

387. Eros (Bmerson), 96. Etemal Goodness, The (Whittier), 814. Ethiopia saluting the Colors (Whitman), 888. Bulalie - A Song (Poe), 51. Evangeline (Loi^ellow), 121. Evening, see Summer by fheliakeelde (Wliftcterj^

Brening Song (Lanier), 616. Srening Wind, The (Bryant), 16. Brentide, At (Whittier), 347. Sxcelsior (Emerson), 94. Szceieior (liongfellow), 112. Experience (Emerson), 77. Bzpoetolation (Whittier), 202.

(Lowell), 411. Ichabod (Whittier), 282. I dream*d in a draam (Whitman), 663. I hear America singing (Whitman), 660. I hear it was chaiged against me (Whitman), 662. In a copy of Omar KhayyAm (Lowell), 620. Incident in a Railroad Car, An (Lowell), 413. In clouds descending, in midnight sleep, $ee Old

War Dreams (Whitman), 666. Inconnue, L' (Holmes), 367. India, Passage to (Whitman), 600. Indian-Summer Reverie, An (Lowell), 424. Informing Spirit, The (Bmerson), 73. In Memory of Joim Oreenleaf Whittier (Holmes),

262. In the Twilight (LoweU), 486. Inyita Minenra (Holmes), 407. Iron Gate, The (Holmes), 307. Ironsides, Old (Holmes), 866. I saw in Louisiana a lire-oak growing (Whitman)

(Holmes), 378. Last £Te of Summer, The (Whittier), 368. Last luTocation, The (Whitman), 606. Last Ltaf , The (Holmes), 368. Last Walk in Autumn, The (Whittier), 282. Latest Views of Mr. Biglow (LoweU), 484. Latter-Day Warnings (Holmes), 868. Laus Deo ! (Whittier), 812. Lending a Punch-Bowl, On (Holmes), 380. Lenore (Poe), 43. L*BnYoi: The Poet and his Songs (Longfellow),

Hon. J. T. Buckingham, A (LoweU), 430. Lexington (Whittier), 346. Life, Fragments on (Emerson), 91. Lifetime, A (Bryant), 31. Ligeia, Song to (Poe), 40. Light of Stars, The (LongfeUow), 104. Lincoln, The Death of (Bryant), 31. L*Inconnne (Holmes), 367. Lines to EUen (Emerson), 60. Little People of the Snow, The (Biyant), 24. Liring Temple, The (Holmes), 300. Locomotive in Winter, To a (Whitman), 604. L. of G.'s Purport (Whitman), 600. Longings for Home, see O Magnet-South (Whit

Bfagnet-South (Whitman), 666. Maidenhood (LongfeUow), 112. Maison d'Or, La (Holmes), 404. Mannahatta (Whitman), 666. Marguerite (Whittier), 336. Marion's Men, Song of (Brjrant), 17. Marshes of Glynn, The (Lanier), 622. Marsh Song - at Sunset (Lanier), 628. Masaccio (Lowell), 466. Mason and SlideU (LoweU), 473. Massachusetts to Virginia (Whittier), 27a Master, Our (Whittier), 826. Maud MuUer (Whittier), 289. Meeting, The (Whittier), 827. Me Imperturbe (Whitman), 660. Memorial Poems, Three (LoweU), 600. Memories (Whittier), 266. Merlin (Emerson), 81. Merops (Emerson), 86. Merrimae, The (Whittier), 964.

(Ixmell), 41L My Hothett To (POe), 65. My Pteymate ( Whittier), 308. My Piialin (Whittier), 301. Myself and Mine (Whitman), M7. My Tlat Year (Whttman), OW. My Bprings (I^anler), 012. Mystery, A (Whlttler), 341. Mystic Trumpeter, The (Whitman), My Triumph (Whittier), 337.

(Whitman), Mfi. Old War-Dreams (Whitaan), MO. OUTer WendeO ffefanea. To (Whittier), JO. O Magnet-Sonth (Whitman), DO. Omar Khayyiun, In a Copy of (LoweD), 529.

* O moonlight deep and tender ' (Lowell), 412. *0 mother of a mlgh^ raee ' (Biyant), 8L On a Buat of (General Grant (Lowell), 630. On Board the TO (LoweU), 489.

Index Of Titles

Rain, The Yoloe of the (Whitman), 607. Rainy Day, The (Longfellow), 111. Randolph of Roanoke (Whittier), 260. Raven, The (Poe), 48. Reconciliation (Whitman), 686. Recorders ages hence (Whitman), 661. Rendition, The (Whittier), 290. Resignation (Longfellow), 148. Response (Whittier), 846. Return of Spring, The (LongfeUow), 108.

686. Saint Augustine, The Ladder of (Longfellow), 16& Samuel J. Tilden (Whittier), 862. * San Bias, The Bells of (Longfellow), 2B8. Santa Filomena (Longfellow), 212. Saturday Club, At the (Holmes), 389. School-Days, In (Whittier), 887. Science, Sonnet to (Poe), 40. Scottish Border (Lowell), 508. Sea Dream, A (Whittier), 348. Seashore (Emereon), 89. Seaweed (Longfellow), 116. Second Letter from B. Sawin, Esq., A (LowellX

Serenade, from The Spanish Student (Longfellow), 111. Seventieth Birthday, Bryant's (Holmes), 382. Seventieth Birthday, For Whittier'^ (Holmes),

(Lowell), 523. 71st Year, My (Whitman), 606. Seward, To William H. (Whittier), 308. Shadows, The (Holmes), 388. Shakespeare (Emerson), 96. Shakespeare (Longfellow), 246. She came and went (LoweU), ^9. Shelley, After a Lecture on (Holmes), 884. Shepherd of King Admetos, The (Lowell), 418. Shoemakers,. The (Whittier), 27S. Shut not your doors (Whitman), 579. Sight in Camp in the Daybreak, A (Whitman), 674 SUence, Sonnet (Poe), 47. Silent Melody, The (Holmes), 386. Shiger in the Prison, The (Whitman), 688. Singing Leaves, The (Lowell), 459. Sisters, The (Whittier), 389. Sixty-eighth Birthday (Lowell), 6d4. Skeleton in Armor, The (LongfeUow), 108. Skipper Ireson's Ride (Whittier), 986. Slave's Dream, The (LongfeUow), 118. Sleeper, The (Poe), 43. Small the theme of my chant, see Ono't-Mtf 1 proposed for a (Lowell), 624. Song - at Sonset (Lanier), 628. Song for ' The Jacquerie ' (Lanier), 611. Song from Al Aaraaf (Poe), 39. Song of Hiawatha, The (Longfellow), 158. Song of Marion's Men (Biyant), 17. Song of Myself, From the (Whitman), 523. Song of the Chattahoochee (Lanier), 621. 9ong of the Open Road (Whitman), 547. Song: * O moonlight deep and tender ' (Lowell),

412. Songs in Many Keys, Prologue (Holmes), 378. Songs of Labor, Dedication (Whittier), 282. Song : * Stay, stay at home * (Longfellow), 255. Sonnet - Scottish Border (Lowell), 506. Sonnet - Sileifce (Poe), 47. Sonnets on Columbus (Lanier), 617. Sonnet - To Science (Poe), 40. Sonnet to Zante (Poe), 46. Sound of the Sea, The (Longfellow), 246. Spanish Student, Serenade from the (Longfellow),

111. Sphinx, The (Emerson), 71. Spider, A noiseless patient (Whitman), 590. Spirit of Poetry, The (Longfellow), 102. Spirit that formed this scene (Whitman), 606. Spring, The Return of (Longfellow), 103. Stanzas, see Expostulation (Whittier), 262. Stanzas on Freedom (Lowell), 414. Star of France (Whitman), 596. Statesman's Secret, The (Holmes), 362. Stedman, see To E. C. S. (Whittier), 352. Stethoscope Song, The (Holmes), 360. Stirrup-Cup, The (Lanier), 621. Stonewall Jackson, The Dying Words of (Lanier),

611. Storm on Lake Asquam (Whittier), 349. Summer by the Lakeside (Whittier), 286. Sun-Day Hymn, A (Holmes), 377. Sun-down Poem, see Crossing Brooklyn Ferry

(Whitman), 653. Sunrise (Lanier), 629. Sunset (Lanier), 628. Sunset on the Bearcamp (Whittier), 344. Sunthin' in the Pastoral Line (Lowell), 480. Sweet Fern (Whittier), 361. Symphony, The (Lanier), 612.

There was a child went forth (Whitman), 632. Thick-sprinkled Bunting (Whitman), 580. Thine Byes still shined (S^erson), 60. Thought (Emerson), 58. Thou Mother with thy equal brood (Whitman-,

598. Three Bells, The (Whittier), 340. Three Friends of Mine (Longfellow), 346. Three Memorial Poems (Lowell), 500. Three Silences of Molinos, The (Longfellow), 26S. Threnody (Emerson), 77.

Biglow (Lowell), 486. To the Fringed Gentian (Bryant), 16. To the Man-of-War-Bird (Whitman), 603. To the Muse (Lowell), 463. To the Spirit of Keats (Lowell), 411. To those who 've fail'd (Whitman), 607. To W. H. Channing, Ode (Emerson), 80. To Whittier, on his Seventy-fifth Birthday (l^«well), 623. To William H. Seward (Whittier), 303. To William Lloyd Garrison (Whittier), 200. To Zante, Sonnet (Poe), 46. Trailing Arbutus, The (Whittier), 347. Translations, Quatrains and (Emerson), 91 Triumph, My (Whittier), 337.

Torell's Legacy, Fanon (Holmes), 372. Tamer's Old T^m^nire (Lowell), 530. Tndlight, In the (LoweU), 488. ^Iwo Angels, The (Longfellow), 157. Two Kiyers (Emerson), 87. Two Streams, The (Holmes), 376.

166. War-Dreams. Old (Whitman), 686. Washers of the Shroud, The (LoweU), 469. Watchers, The (Whittier), 306. Waterfowl, To a (Biyant), 3. Waving of the Com, The (Lanier), 617. Weariness (Longfellow), 289. Webster (Emerson), 61.

663. When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd (Whitman), 681. When the fuU-grown poet came (Whitman), 603. Whispers of Heavenly Death (Whitman), 588. Whittier, In Memory of John Greenleaf (Holmes),

William H. Seward, Tb (Whittier), 303. WUliam Lloyd Oarrison, To (Whittier), 260. Wind-Harp, The (LoweU), 462. Winter Piece, A (Bryant), 6. With husky-haughty lips, O Sea (Whitman), 606. Without and Within (LoweU), 461. Wonderful * One-Hoss Shay,' The (Holmes), 369. Woodnotes I (Emerson), 66. Woodnotes II (Emerson), 67. Word out of the sea. A, see Out of the cradle endlessly rocking (Whitman), 667. Wordsworth (Whittier), 283. Wordsworth, After a Lecture on (Holmes), 363. World-Soul, The (Emerson), 82. Worship of Nature, The (WhiUier), 327. Wound-Dresser, The (Whitman), 675. Wreck of Rivermouth, The (WhiUier), 310. Wreck of the Hesperus, The (LongfeUow), 107. Written at Rome (Emerson), 60. Written in a Volume of Gtoethe (Emerson), 66. Written in Naples (Emerson), 60.