BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

O EVEN-HANDED Nature! we confess

This life that men so honor, love, and bless

Has filled thine olden measure. Not the less.

We count the precious seasons that remain;

Strike not the level of the golden grain,

But heap it high with years, that earth may gain.

What heaven can lose,— for heaven is rich in song

Do not all poets, dying, still prolong

Their broken chants amid the seraph throng,

Where, blind no more, Ionia's bard is seen,

And England's heavenly minstrel sits between

The Mantuan and the wan-cheeked Florentine?

This was the first sweet singer in the cage

Of our close-woven life. A new-born age

Claims in his vesper song its heritage.

Spare us, oh spare us long our heart's desire!

Moloch, who calls our children through the fire,

Leaves us the gentle master of the lyre.

We count not on the dial of the sun

The hours, the minutes, that his sands have run;

Rather, as on those flowers that one by one.

From earliest dawn their ordered bloom display

Till evening's planet with her guiding ray

Leads in the blind old mother of the day,

We reckon by his songs, each song a flower,

The long, long daylight, numbering hour by hour,

Each breathing sweetness like a bridal bower.

How can we praise the verse whose music flows

With solemn cadence and majestic close,

Pure as the dew that filters through the rose?

How shall we thank him that in evil days

He faltered never,— nor for blame, nor praise,

Nor hire, nor party, shamed his earlier lays?

But as his boyhood was of manliest hue,

So to his youth his manly years were true,

All dyed in royal purple through and through!

He for whose touch the lyre of Heaven is strung

Needs not the flattering toil of mortal tongue

Let not the singer grieve to die unsung!

Marbles forget their message to mankind:

In his own verse the poet still we find,

In his own page his memory lives enshrined,

As in their amber sweets the smothered bees,—

As the fair cedar, fallen before the breeze,

Lies self-embalmed amidst the mouldering trees.

Poets, like youngest children, never grow

Out of their mother's fondness. Nature so

Holds their soft hands, and will not let them go,

Till at the last they track with even feet

Her rhythmic footsteps, and their pulses beat

Twinned with her pulses, and their lips repeat.

The secrets she has told them, as their own

Thus is the inmost soul of Nature known,

And the rapt minstrel shares her awful throne!

O lover of her mountains and her woods,

Her bridal chamber's leafy solitudes,

Where Love himself with tremulous step intrudes,

Her snows fall harmless on thy sacred fire

Far be the day that claims thy sounding lyre

To join the music of the angel choir!

Yet, since life's amplest measure must be filled,

Since throbbing hearts must be forever stilled,

And all must fade that evening sunsets gild,

Grant, Father, ere he close the mortal eyes

That see a Nation's reeking sacrifice,

Its smoke may vanish from these blackened skies!

Then, when his summons comes, since come it must,

And, looking heavenward with unfaltering trust,

He wraps his drapery round him for the dust,

His last fond glance will show him o'er his head

The Northern fires beyond the zenith spread

In lambent glory, blue and white and red,—