“Well, I must have a look at the man who wrote that poem,” said Dana; and off he posted to Boston. He went to the state house, and to the senate chamber, and asked for Senator Bryant. A tall, gray-bearded old man was pointed out to him. Dana looked at him for a few minutes and said to himself: “He has a fine head; but that man never wrote ‘Thanatopsis.’” So without speaking to him he returned to Cambridge. The poem was printed in the _North American Review_. It was the first great poem ever produced in America; it was the work of a young man not eighteen years of age, and it has since been said to be the greatest poem ever written by one so young. CHAPTER V THANATOPSIS Every child at school becomes familiar with this grand poem, because it is in many of the higher readers. But that is not enough. You should learn to understand its meaning. As you read this poem, are you not reminded of the deep notes of a church organ, as the organist, left alone, plays some mighty fugue in preparation for the funeral of a great man? Thanatopsis (made up from two Greek words) means a view of death. The poem opens by calling to our minds the grandeurs and the beauty of a cathedral-like wood, where Nature rules supreme. To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours she Has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. We should hardly expect a young man of seventeen to be meditating on death; but even very young people often think about it. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart— These are the things we all think of when father or mother or brother or sister or young friend dies and is laid away in the earth. It is sad and terrible, and we cannot help weeping. At those times strong men and women shed tears, and we do not think it strange. But, says Bryant,—