No poet, perhaps, in the world is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant. He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors. The following poem is a fair specimen of his deep vein in his chosen serious themes. Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of melancholy in his treatment is always pleasing. THOU unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, And, last, Man’s Life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends――the good――the kind, Yielded to thee with tears,―― The venerable form――the exalted mind. My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back;――yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. In vain:――thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Nor to the streaming eye Thou giv’st them back,――nor to the broken heart. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown;――to thee Earth’s wonder and her pride Are gather’d, as the waters to the sea; Labors of good to man, Unpublish’d charity, unbroken faith,―― Love, that midst grief began, And grew with years, and falter’d not in death. Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unutter’d, unrevered; With thee are silent fame, Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear’d. Thine for a space are they:―― Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; Thy gates shall yet give way, Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, Shall then come forth, to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime. They have not perish’d――no! Kind words, remember’d voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul’s apparent seat, All shall come back; each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again; Alone shall Evil die, And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. And then shall I behold Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung, And her who, still and cold, Fills the next grave,――the beautiful and young. * * * * * THE MURDERED TRAVELER.