ANGLE LEAL LAPL Ko. 35 
on a breezy hill-top, as I did lately, ard read 
this :-— 
*‘T hung my verses in the wind ; 
Time and tide their faults may find: 
All were winnowed through and through ; 
Five lines lasted sound and true.” 
Or this :— 
—‘“ The bell of beetle and of bee | 
Knell their melodious memory ;” 
and he will feel a new consciousness of how 
Nature 
“Rounds with rhyme her every rune.” 
Scattered all through Emerson’s poems are 
thoughts that cut into nature and tap her 
sweetest and most hidden veins. 
It is remarkable that no Southern poet has 
arisen to give us the wood-notes of the land of 
the magnolia and the orange. Some of Syd- 
ney Lanier’s verses, it is true, are dashed with 
the fervid colors of the semi-tropic, but he did 
not live to do his best, and his ill-health no 
doubt interfered with his out-door studies. 
His Marsh Hymns are lofty, fragmentary na- 
ture-songs, and I have no doubt that when his 
poems appear in book-form, as they soon will, 
it will be seen that his death was a sad thing 
for those who like genuine poetry. Still the 
fact remains that we have no poet who gives 
us the warm, odorous, fruitful South in rhythm 
and rhyme slumbrous as her sunshine and 
electrifying as her breezes. Indeed, no poet, 
of whatever country, has ever found the way 
to an expression of tropical out-door life. Of 
course I do not speak of mere descriptive 
verse, which is the lowest order of poetry. A 
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