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She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
In autumn's hazy night.
She cropped the sprouting leaves, And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn, Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here; “ It were a sin,” she said, “to harm
Or fright, that friendly deer.
“This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
She feeds before our door.
“The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
And never twang the bow.
And think that all is well,
The place in which we dwell.”
In forests far away,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
And wandered home again.
Shone with a mingling light;
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighboring wood
The startled creature flew,
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
And prowls the fox at night.
In 1860, Bryant delivered a Fulogy on The Life, Character, and Genius of Washington Irving, which, together with previous addresses on Thomas Cole, the artist, and Cooper, the novelist, affords a specimen of our poet's power as a pure, truthful, and accurate prose-writer.
A new volume of poems, called Thirty Poems, was issued in 1864. • The most striking of these are those wherein the
author describes Nature, and the human feelings it would seem to typify. As a specimen, we quote
THE SONG OF THE SOWER
In autumn gold the beeches stand;
Upon the teeming land.
And ask the sower's hand.
The early bluebirds sing.
The ears that nod in summer's gale,
The harvest that o'erflows the vale,
The clatter of the thresher's flail,
Down in the willowy vale.
Ha! feel ye not your fingers thrill,
As o'er them, in the yellow grains, Glide the warm drops of blood that fill,
For mortal strife, the warrior's veins; Such as, on Solferino's day, Slaked the brown sand and flowed away; Flowed till the herds, on Mincio's brink, Snuffed the red stream and feared to drink; Blood that in deeper pools shall lie,
On the sad earth, as time grows gray,
Above the thundering fray;
Shall sicken with dismay;
To perish in a day;-
And lay the sword away.
Nay, strew, with free and joyous sweep,
The seed upon the expecting soil;
The garners of the men who toil.
Till its broad banks lie bare;
With hammer blows, plied quick and strong, And him, who, with the steady sledge,
Smites the shrill anvil all day long. sprinkle the furrow's even trace For those whose toiling hands uprear
The roof-trees of our swarming race,
By grove and plain, by stream and mere: Who forth, from crowded city, lead
The lengthening street, and overlay Green orchard plot and grassy mead
With pavement of the murmuring way. Cast, with full hands, the harvest cast, For the brave men that climb the mast, When to the billow and the blast
It swings and stoops, with fearful strain, And bind the fluttering mainsail fast,
Till the tossed bark shall sit, again,
Fling wid the grain for those who throw
And into ponderous masses wind
Comes forth to clothe mankind. Strew, with free sweep, the grain for them,
By whom the busy thread, Along the garments' even hem
And winding seam, is led;
The lonely lamp alight,
Beyond the middle night.
Shall ripen for the reaper here.
Still, strew, with joyous hand, the wheat
For even now I seem
As in a summer dream.
The bridegroom's look of bashful pride,
The faint smile of the pallid bride, And bridemaid's blush at matron's jest,