But once, in autumn's golden time,

He ranged the wild in vain,

Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.

The crescent mocn and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.

He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.

Away into the neighboring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.

Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;

The deer upon the grassy mead

Was seen again no more.

But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,

And slew the youth and dame.

Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;

There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.

In 1860, Bryant delivered a Fulogy on The Life, Character, and Genius of Washington Irving, which, together with previous addresses on Thomas Cole, the artist, and Cooper, the novelist, affords a specimen of our poet's power as a pure, truthful, and accurate prose-writer.

A new volume of poems, called Thirty Poems, was issued in 1864. The most striking of these are those wherein the

hor describes Nature, and the human feelings it would m to typify. As a specimen, we quote

MANUAL OF AMERICAN LITERATU

Ha! feel ye not your fingers thrill,

As o'er them, in the yellow grains,
Glide the warm drops of blood that fill,
For mortal strife, the warrior's veins;
Such as, on Solferino's day,

Slaked the brown sand and flowed away
Flowed till the herds, on Mincio's brink,
Snuffed the red stream and feared to dr
Blood that in deeper pools shall lie,

On the sad earth, as time grows gray,
When men by deadlier arts shall die,
And deeper darkness blot the sky
Above the thundering fray;

And realms, that hear the battle cry,
Shall sicken with dismay;

And chieftains to the war shall lead
Whole nations, with the tempest's speed,
To perish in a day;-

Till man, by love and mercy taught,
Shall rue the wreck his fury wrought,

And lay the sword away.

Oh strew with pausing, shuddering hand,
The seed upon the helpless land,
As if, at every step, ye cast

The pelting hail and riving blast.

Nay, strew, with free and joyous sweep,
The seed upon the expecting soil;
For hence the plenteous year shall heap

The garners of the men who toil.
Strew the bright seed for those who tear
The matted sward with spade and share,
And those whose sounding axes gleam
Beside the lonely forest stream,

Till its broad banks lie bare;
And him who breaks the quarry-ledge,
With hammer blows, plied quick and st
And him, who, with the steady sledge,
Smites the shrill anvil all day long.
Sprinkle the furrow's even trace

For those whose toiling hands uprear