In the swamp, in secluded recesses,

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,

Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat!

Death's outlet song of life — (for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing thou wouldst surely die).

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Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes, and through old woods (where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray débris);

Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes — passing the endless grass;

Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;

IO

Passing the apple tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,

Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in black,

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With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil'd women, standing,

With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the

night,

With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces and

the unbared heads,

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the somber faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn ;

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With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour'd around the

coffin,

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs —

Where amid these you journey,

With the toiling, toiling bells' perpetual clang;
Here! coffin that slowly passes,

I give you my sprig of lilac.

Sing on there in the swamp!

O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes

call;

I hear - I come presently

But a moment I linger for the lustrous star has detained me; The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me.

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?

And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?
Sea winds, blown from east and west,

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Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:

These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,

I perfume the grave of him I love.

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?

And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,

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With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke

lucid and bright,

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With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking

sun, burning, expanding the air;

With the fresh green herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;

In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;

With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;

And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of

chimneys,

And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen

homeward returning.

Lo! body and soul! this land!

Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships;

And even the far-spreading prairies, cover'd with grass and corn. Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;

The violet and purple moon, with just-felt breezes ;

The gentle, soft-born, measureless light;

The miracle, spreading, bathing all-the fulfill'd noon;

The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

Sing on sing on, you gray-brown bird!

Sing from the swamps, the recesses

bushes;

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pour your chant from the

Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.
Sing on, dearest brother- warble your reedy song;
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

O liquid, and free, and tender!

O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!

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You only I hear yet the star holds me (but will soon de

part);

Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me.

Now while I sat in the day, and look'd forth,

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In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,

In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,

In the heavenly aerial beauty (after the perturb'd winds, and

the storms);

Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,

The many-moving sea tides,-and I saw the ships how they sail'd, And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,

And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, with its meals and minutia of daily usages;

each

And the streets, how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent-lo! then and there,

Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with

the rest,

Appear'd the cloud, appeared the long black trail;

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And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, 10 And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the

hands of companions,

I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the

dimness,

To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still.
And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me;

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The gray-brown bird I know, received us comrades three;
And he sang what seem'd the carol of death, and a verse for

him I love.

From deep secluded recesses,

From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,

Came the carol of the bird.

And the charm of the carol rapt me,

As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night;
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

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HENRY PETERSON

1818-1891

PUBLISHER, editor, poet, Peterson was born in Philadelphia, where he spent most of his life. For twenty years he was assistant editor of the Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post, a weekly paper founded by Benjamin Franklin. He published two volumes of poems, and also wrote several plays.

FROM AN "ODE FOR DECORATION DAY"

O GALLANT brothers of the generous South,

Foes for a day and brothers for all time!
I charge you by the memories of our youth,
By Yorktown's field and Montezuma's clime,
Hold our dead sacred let them quietly rest

In your unnumbered vales, where God thought best.
Your vines and flowers learned long since to forgive,
And o'er their graves a broidered mantle weave:
Be you as kind as they are, and the word
Shall reach the Northland with each summer bird,
And thoughts as sweet as summer shall awake
Responsive to your kindness, and shall make
Our peace the peace of brothers once again,
And banish utterly the days of pain.

And ye, O Northmen! be ye not outdone
In generous thought and deed.

We all do need forgiveness, every one;

And they that give shall find it in their need.
Spare of your flowers to deck the stranger's grave,
Who died for a lost cause:

A soul more daring, resolute, and brave,

Ne'er won a world's applause.

A brave man's hatred pauses at the tomb.

For him some Southern home was robed in gloom,

LONG'S AM. POEMS- - 13

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