AMERICAN LITERATURE 230 



Forth upon the Gitche Gume, 

 Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, 

 With his fishing-line of cedar, 

 Of the twisted bark of cedar, 

 Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, 

 Mlflhe-Nahma. King of Fishes, 

 In his birch-canoe exulting, 

 All alone went Hiawatha; 



while every returning winter makes new and 

 fresh the charm of Whittier's Snowbo uml : 



I'nwarmed by any sunset light 



The gray day darkened into night, 



A night made hoary with the swarm 



And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 



As zigzag, wavering to and fro, 



Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 



And ere the early bedtime came 



The white drift piled the window-frame, 



And through the glass the clothes-line posts 



Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 



Whitman and Lanier, two other poets, one 

 representing New York and one the South, it 

 is interesting to contrast. Lanier said of 

 Whitman that he was "poetry's butcher," who 

 gives us "huge, raw collops slashed from the 

 rump of poetry" ; and it is not difficult to under- 

 stand the aversion which the writer of exqui- 

 site music felt for the other's rough-hewn 

 measures. Contrast Whitman's 



Creeds and schools in abeyance, 



Retiring back awhile sufficed at what they are, 



but never forgotten, 

 I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at 



every hazard, 

 Nature without check with original energy. 



with Lanier's 



Out of the hills of Habersham, 



Down the valleys of Hall, 

 I hurry amain to reach the plain, 

 Run the rapid and leap the fall, 

 Split at the rock and together again, 

 Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, 

 And flee from folly on every side 

 With a lover's pain to attain the plain 



Far from the hills of Habersham, 



Far from the valleys of Hall. 



Poe and Lanier are the most conspicuous 

 poetic geniuses the South has produced, but 

 a number of others have done very creditable 

 work. Noteworthy among these are Paul 

 Hamilton Hayne, William Gilmore Simms and 

 Henry Timrod, all of whom have places in 

 any anthology which attempts to include what 

 is most representative in American poetry. 



In recent years Eugene Field and James 

 Whitcomb Riley have made a special appeal 

 to the popular heart. Differing in many ways, 

 they were alike in this, that they knew how 

 to find the poetry, the tenderness, in every- 



AMERICAN LITERATURE 



day things and how to treat of them so simply 

 that the man who cares little or nothing for 

 other poetry finds heartfelt pleasure in theirs. 

 Field is especially the poet of children his 

 lulla*bies have a swaying motion, his "real boy" 

 poems a swing and "go" that make them 

 favorites everywhere. Sometimes the touch 

 of pathos is strong, as in Little Boy Blue: 



The little toy dog is covered with dust. 



But sturdy and stanch he stands ; 



And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 



And his musket moulds in his hands. 



Time was when the little toy dog was new, 



And the soldier was passing fair ; 



And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 



Kissed them and put them there. 



But more often he sings of happy children, 

 like the very real little boy who declares that 



I'd like to be a cowboy, and ride a fiery horse 



'Way out into the big an' boundin' west ; 



I'd kill the bears an' catymounts and wolves I 



came across, 



An' I'd pluck the bald-head eagle from his nest. 

 With my pistol by my side I'd roam the prairies 



wide, 

 An' to scalp the savage Injine in his wigwam 



would I ride 

 If I durst but I dursn't! 



Riley treats with kindly sentiment all phases 

 of the Indiana life he knows so well, using 

 frequently the Hoosier "dialect," as in 



Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to 



stay, 

 An' wash the cups an' saucers up, and brush the 



crumbs away, 

 An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the 



hearth, an' sweep, 

 An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an* earn 



her board-an'-keep ; 

 An' all us other children, when the supper things 



is done, 

 We set around the kitchen fire an' has the 



mostest fun 

 A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells 



about, 



An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you 

 Ef you 

 Don't 

 Watch 

 Out! 



It is possible at almost any time to pick 

 up a literary magazine and find discussion as 

 to whether or not poetry is on the decline, but 

 in general a more optimistic note appears in 

 these than was noticeable a few years ago. 

 Recent years have produced no great poets 

 some critics believe that the world will never 

 again see a Shelley or a Wordsworth; but 

 there have been many whose true inspiration 

 cannot be denied, many who have "followed 



