CHAPTER I

THE LOVE OF NATURE

Do you know what is meant by “the love of Nature”? Yes? But are you quite sure? Think a little. It is not an easy thing to understand, and many older people than you do not know what it means.

Bryant was the great American poet of Nature. His poetry is best understood and enjoyed by those who have first learned to love Nature as he loved her. To all such it appears to be very simple and grand.

In order that we may come by easy steps to a true appreciation of Bryant’s poetry, let us take a lesson in the love of Nature.

“Man made the city, God made the country,” is the old saying. Look at the long rows of city houses: how ugly they are! How dirty are the streets, from which on windy days clouds of dust sometimes rise and almost choke you as you walk along! Even the sky above is not often clear and blue as it ought to be, but it seems filthy with smoke and soot. And what sounds you hear! The noise of the cars as they buzz and jar along the street, the monotonous roar of human traffic, and the rough words of teamsters and hackmen as they try to crowd by one another—all these grate upon the sensitive ear.

How different is everything in the country! What a clear, brilliant blue the sky is; and what a vast variety of color the surface of the earth presents!

Here is the light, fresh green of the grass, and over there are the darker greens of the pines and cedars. In the autumn we observe the gorgeous hues of the maples and the oaks as their leaves change with the frost from green to crimson and gold. Think, too, of the flowers! Here are fields white with daisies, and there are other fields filled with yellow buttercups or red clover blossoms! Farther away are fields of the graceful, slender-stalked wheat, or of the tall, rustling corn!

Have you ever been in the woods in June? Instead of the harsh sounds of the streets, you hear the tumultuous but harmonious songs of birds; instead of the steady roar of traffic, you hear the deep note of the wind through the trees, or the murmur of a little brook flowing over stones or dashing down a waterfall. All around you the trees rise, like columns in a cathedral, but more beautiful and majestic; and the air is filled with a sweet scent fit to be used for incense in the churches.

Now read what Bryant has to say in his “Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood.” There are many hard words in it, and you must read very carefully and thoughtfully; but it will make you feel that on entering such a wood you are indeed going into God’s own natural church, a place even more magnificent and wonderful than Solomon’s temple:

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs No school of long experience, that the world Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men, And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence these shades Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof Of green and stirring branches is alive And musical with birds, that sing and sport In wantonness of spirit; while below The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the wingèd plunderer That sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves, And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, With all their earth upon them, twisting high, Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o’er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee, nor let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.[1]

This is one of the hardest things in Bryant’s poetry. When you can see all its beauties, and take pleasure in reading it, you will have learned to love both Nature and Nature’s poet-priest.

[1] To help in the mastery of this poem, the student is advised to make a careful list of all the natural objects mentioned in it, such as birds, brooks, trees, and flowers, and try to recollect having seen something of the same sort.