Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leap Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow Thro’ thy soul’s shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou know Something of what is life, shake off this death; Have thy soul feel the universal breath With which all nature’s quick, and learn to be Sharer in all thou dost touch or see; Break from thy body’s grasp, thy spirit’s trance; Give to thy soul air, thy faculties expanse; Love, joy, e’en sorrow—yield thyself to all! They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall, Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind To dust and sense, and set at large the mind; Then move in sympathy with God’s great whole; And be, like man at first, A Living Soul! A Clump of Daisies. Ye daisies gay, This fresh spring day Closed gathered here together, To play in the light, To sleep all the night, To abide through the sullen weather; Ye creatures bland, A simple band, Ye free ones, linked in pleasure, And linked when your forms Stoop low in the storms, And the rain comes down without measure; When the wild clouds fly Athwart the sky, And ghostly shadows, glancing, Are darkening the gleam Of the hurrying stream, And your close, bright heads gayly dancing; Though dull awhile, Again ye smile; For, see, the warm sun breaking; The stream’s going glad, There’s nothing now sad, And the small bird his song is waking. The dew-drop sip With dainty lip! The sun is low descended, And moon, softly fall On troops true and small; Sky and earth in one kindly blended. And, morning! spread Their jewelled bed With lights in the east sky springing; And, brook! breathe around Thy low murmured sound! May they move, ye birds, to your singing; For in their play I hear them say, Here, man, thy wisdom borrow; In heart be a child, In words, true and mild; Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Bryant’s writings transport us into the depths of the solemn, primeval forest, to the shores of the lonely lakes, the banks of the wild, nameless stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like a promontory from amidst a wild ocean of foliage; while they shed around us the glory of a climate fierce in its extremes, but splendid in its vicissitudes.—_Washington Irving._ His soul is charity itself—in all respects generous and noble.—_Edgar A. Poe._