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THE EARLY POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 y 
 
 NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. 
 
 07 CO.W 
 
 s 
 
 -~ 93 
 
 ZC>Glty 
 
 14TH Street. ^ 
 
 NEW YORK: 46 East 14TH 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY. 
 BOSTON: 100 Purchase Street. 
 
 \ 
 
^ 
 
 
 Copyright, 1893, 
 By T. Y. Crowell & Co. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant was born November 3, 1794, 
 at Cummington, Hampshire County, in Western Massa- 
 chusetts. 
 
 Like Longfellow, he was descended from Captain John 
 Alden and Priscilla Mullins. He had a threefold claim 
 to inheritance from the pilgrims of the " Mayflower.*' 
 
 On both sides he came from an active and long-lived 
 race. His great-grandfather, Dr. Ichabod Bryant, was 
 a man of " gigantic size and strength." His grandfather. 
 Dr. Philip Byrant, lived to be eighty-five and visited his 
 patients till a fortnight before he died. His father was 
 so muscular that he could lift a barrel of cider into the 
 cart over the wheel. His maternal grandmother, at the 
 age of sixty-seven, was able, unaided, to mount a horse 
 from the ground. 
 
 His father, Dr. Peter Bryant, might in happier cir- 
 cumstances have been illustrious. Left at the age of 
 eight to the charge of an avaricious uncle, his early edu- 
 cation was wholly neglected. In spite of every dis- 
 couragement he fitted himself for Harvard, but was not 
 
IV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 allowed to proceed with the course. His knowledge of 
 medicine was entirely acquired at home, except for a 
 year's instruction under Dr. Prilete, a celebrated French 
 surgeon, and a course of lectures at Cambridge. At 
 the age of twenty-five his property consisted of a horse, 
 a few books, and twenty-five dollars' worth of medicines. 
 With that capital he established himself at Cummington. 
 His knowledge of men, but not his means, was increased 
 by a voyage to the East Indies as surgeon to a merchant 
 vessel. The vessel was confiscated at Mauritius, where 
 Dr. Bryant was obliged to remain more than a year, 
 thus acquiring a knowledge of French and, it is surmised, 
 a more liberal theology than the rigid Calvinism in which 
 he had been brought up. 
 
 The books, curiosities, surgical instruments, and bo- 
 tanical specimens which he had collected during his 
 absence, were all lost, together with his luggage, toward 
 the end of his voyage home from the Cape of Good Hope. 
 He landed " truly and literally poor." 
 
 Nevertheless from 1806 till 18 13 he represented his 
 county in the General Court, and was afterward State 
 Senator for two years. 
 
 Byrant says ip his autobiography : — 
 
 "My father delighted in poetry, and in his library 
 were the works of most of the eminent English poets. 
 He wrote verses himself, mostly humorous and satirical. 
 He was not unskilled in Latin poetry, in which the odes 
 of Horace were his favorites. He was fond of music, 
 played on the violin, and I remember hearing him say 
 that he once made a bass viol — for he was very in- 
 genious in the use of tools — and played upon it. 
 
 " He was of a mild and indulgent temper, somewhat 
 silent — though not hesitating in conversation, and never 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. V 
 
 expatiated at much length on any subject. His patients 
 generally paid him whatever they pleased, if ever so little, 
 so that he could not by any means be called a thriving 
 man. In one respect he did not stint himself: he always 
 dressed well. . . . He had a certain metropolitan air." 
 
 Four of Dr. Bryant's sisters also wrote verses, but if 
 William Cullen inherited his genius from his father's 
 family, he had no ear for music. 
 
 Dr. Bryant married Sarah Snell, who, like himself, had 
 been born at North Bridgewater. With little chance 
 for education, she nevertheless made the most of her 
 opportunities, and became a power for good in her neigh- 
 borhood. She was indefatigable in her household duties, 
 tending carefully to the necessary economies of a poor 
 doctor's family, spinning and weaving, making her chil- 
 dren's clothes, teaching them to read and write, and doing 
 all the manifold work of the mother of a large family. 
 If her neighbors needed her help, she gave it, often nurs- 
 ing the sick for days at a time. She took a deep interest 
 in public affairs, and was influential in improving schools 
 and roads, and the planting of trees. One of her favorite 
 mottoes was, "Never be idle," and she carried it out to 
 the letter. 
 
 Dr. Bryant's library contained upwards of seven hun- 
 dred volumes, and included Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, 
 Pope, Burns, Cowper, Scott, Southey, and Wordsworth. 
 All the family were great readers, and winter evenings 
 the boys used to lie on their backs on the floor, making 
 the most of the flickering light of the birch logs in the fire- 
 place. 
 
 William Cullen knew the alphabet by the time he was 
 sixteen months old, and before he was four he was sent to 
 the district school. When he was five he used to stand on 
 
VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 a settle and declaim Watts's hymns. At eight he began 
 to write verses. 
 
 At this time Dr. Bryant and his family, after several 
 moves, had been living for about three years at the home- 
 stead of his father-in-law, Ebenezer Snell, a Justice of the 
 Peace, and a man of great character and wit. He set his 
 young grandson at versifying passages of Scripture. Several 
 specimens are preserved, but the earlier ones show more 
 immaturity than his original effusions. Thus he began the 
 first chapter of Job : — 
 
 " His name was Job, evil did he eschew. 
 
 To him were born seven sons : three daughters, too. " 
 
 His father criticised it and he began again : — 
 
 " Job, just and good, in Uz had sojourned long; 
 
 He feared his God, and shunned the way of wrong. 
 Three were his daughters, and his sons were seven, 
 And large the wealth bestowed on him by heaven. 
 Seven thousand sheep were in his pastures fed, 
 Three thousand camels by his train were led; 
 For him the yoke a thousand oxen wore. 
 Five hundred she-asses his burdens bore. 
 His household to a mighty host increased, 
 The greatest man was Job in all the East." 
 
 About the same time he celebrated the June eclipse of 
 the Sun (1806) in heroic verse. It began: — 
 
 " How awfully sublime and grand to see 
 The lamp of Day wrap'ed in Obscurity ! 
 To see the sun remove behind the moon. 
 And nightly darkness shroud the day at noon ! 
 The birds no longer feel his genial ray. 
 But cease to sing and sit upon the spray. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Vll 
 
 A solemn gloom and stillness spreads around, 
 Reigns in the air and broods o'er all the ground. 
 Once smiling Nature wears another face; 
 The blooming meadow loses half its grace; 
 All things are silent save the chilling breeze 
 That in low whispers rustles through the trees. 
 The stars break forth and stud the azure sky, 
 And larger planets meet the wondering eye." 
 
 He also delivered an original address for a school ex- 
 amination; and this effusion, which dealt in heroic coup- 
 lets with the progress of knowledge, was afterwards 
 printed in the Salevi Gazette. His father said, "He will 
 be ashamed of his verses when he is grown up." That 
 was a correct prediction. Nevertheless, Dr. Bryant, the 
 following year took with him to Boston a metrical invec- 
 tion by his son, and had it printed in a pamphlet entitled 
 "The Embargo; or. Sketches of the Times; a Satire by a 
 Youth of Thirteen." It contained the following passages, 
 which, of course, show the influence of Pope and 
 Dryden : — 
 
 JEFFERSON. 
 
 "And thou, the scorn of every patriot name, 
 Thy country's ruin and thy council's shame, 
 Poor servile thing ! derision of the brave 
 Who erst from Tarleton fled to Carter's cave; 
 Thou who when menac'd by perfidious Gaul 
 Didst prostrate to her whisker'd minion fall; 
 And when our cash her empty bags supply'd 
 Didst meanly strive the foul disgrace to hide; 
 Go, wretch, resign the presidential chair, 
 
 ■ Disclose thy secret measures, foul or fair. 
 
Vlli BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Go, search with curious eye for horned frogs, 
 
 'Mid the wild wastes of Louisianian bogs, 
 
 Or, where Ohio rolls his turbid stream, 
 
 Dig for huge bones, thy glory and thy theme. 
 
 Go, scan, Philosophist, thy Sally's charms, 
 
 And sink supinely in her sable arms, 
 
 But quit to abler hands the helm of state." 
 
 VICE. 
 
 *' Look where we will, and in whatever land, 
 Europe's rich soil, or Afric's barren sand. 
 Where the wild savage hunts his wilder prey, 
 Or art or science pour their brightest day, 
 The monster Vice appears before our eyes 
 In naked impudence or gay disguise. 
 
 But quit the meaner game, indignant Muse, 
 And to thy country turn thy nobler views; 
 Ill-fated clime ! condemn'd to feel th' extremes 
 Of a weak ruler's philosophic dreams; 
 Driven headlong on to ruin's fateful brink, 
 When will thy country feel? when will she think? 
 
 Satiric Muse, shall injured Commerce weep 
 Her ravish'd nights, and will thy thunders sleep? 
 Dart thy keen glances, knit thy threatening brows. 
 Call fire from heaven to blast thy country's foes. 
 Oh ! let a youth thine inspiration learn ! 
 Oh ! give him words that breathe and thoughts that 
 burn ! 
 
 Curse of our nation, source of countless woes. 
 From whose dark womb unreckon'd misery flows. 
 The Embargo rages, like a sweeping wind; 
 Fear lowers before, and Famine stalks behind." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ix 
 
 THE faction's DEMAGOGUE. 
 
 *' E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, 
 Mislead with falsehood, and with zeal inflame; 
 Lift her black banner, spread her empire wide. 
 And stalk triumphant with a fury's stride. 
 She blows her brazen trump, and at the sound 
 A motley throng, obedient, flock around; 
 A mist of changing hues o'er all she flings, 
 And darkness perches on her dragon wings. 
 As Johnson deep, as Addison refin'd. 
 And skill'd to pour conviction o'er the mind. 
 Oh, might some patriot rise, the gloom dispel, 
 Chase Error's mist, and break her magic spell ! 
 
 But vain the wish', for hark ! the murmuring meed 
 Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed; 
 Enter and view the gaping concourse there, 
 Intent with gaping mouth and stupid stare, 
 While in the midst their supple leader stands, 
 Harangues aloud, and flourishes his hands; 
 To adulation tunes his servile throat. 
 And sues, successful, for each blockhead's vote." 
 
 The satire met with a rapid sale among the Federalists, 
 who at that time delighted in any sort of scurrility. A 
 second edition was soon issued, corrected, and enlarged, 
 and accompanied by a number of other poems, the longest 
 of which — one hundred and thirty-five lines — was enti- 
 tled "The Spanish Revolution." 
 
 Some doubt having been expressed whether a youth of 
 thirteen could have written the " Embargo," the new edi- 
 tion contained an " advertisement," certifying the fact 
 from "personal knowledge of himself and his family, as 
 
X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 well as of his literary improvement and extraordinary tal- 
 ents." It contained also a preface, in which the author 
 declares that he "is far from thinking that all his errors 
 are expunged, or all his faults corrected," adding, "In- 
 deed, were that the case, he is suspicious that the ' com- 
 position ' would cease to be his own." 
 
 The first example of Bryant's blank verse is interesting. 
 It is a version of David's lament over Saul and Jonathan, 
 and was also written at his grandfather Snell's instiga- 
 tion : — 
 
 "The beautiful of Israel's land lie slain 
 On the high places. How the mighty ones 
 Are fallen ! Tell it not in Gath, nor sound 
 The tidings in the streets of Ascalon, 
 Lest there the daughters of the Philistines 
 Rejoice; lest there the heathen maidens sing 
 The song of triumph. Oh, ye mountain slopes, 
 Ye Heights of Gilboa, let there be no rain 
 Nor dew upon you; let no offerings smoke 
 Upon your fields, for there the strong man's shield. 
 The shield of Saul, was vilely cast away. 
 As tho' he ne'er had been anointed king. 
 From bloody fray, from conflict to the death, 
 With men of might the bow of Jonathan 
 Turned never back, nor did the sword of Saul 
 Return without the spoils of victory. 
 Joined in their loves and pleasant in their lives 
 Were Saul and Jonathan; nor in their deaths 
 Divided. Swifter were they in pursuit 
 Than eagles, and of more than lion strength. 
 Weep, Israel's daughters, over Saul who robed 
 Your limbs in scarlet, adding ornaments 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xi 
 
 That ye delight in, ornaments of gold ! 
 
 How are the mighty fallen in the heat 
 
 Of battle ! Oh, my brother Jonathan, 
 
 Slain on the heights, my heart is wrung for thee ! 
 
 My brother, very pleasant hast thou been 
 
 To me; thy love for me was wonderful, 
 
 Passing the love of women. How are fallen 
 
 The mighty! and their weapons lie in dust." 
 
 It was decided, in view of such talent, that the boy 
 should go to college, and he was sent to his uncle, the 
 Rev. Thomas Snell, at North Brookfield, for the prepara- 
 tory course in Latin. Here, at his father's desire, he 
 occupied himself with rendering into English verse pas- 
 sages from the ^neid. The following description of the 
 storm from Book I., though Bryant wrote his father that 
 he would doubtless find in it much that needed emenda- 
 tion, and much that characterized the crude efforts of 
 puerility, is not a discreditable effort for a lad in his 
 fifteenth year: — 
 
 " ^olus spake, and with a godlike might 
 
 Impelled his spear against the mountain's height. 
 Straight the freed winds forsake their rocky cell, 
 And o'er the earth in furious whirlwinds swell. 
 The South-west, laden with its tempests dire. 
 Fierce Eurus and the raging South conspire; 
 Disclose the ocean's depths with dreadful roar 
 And roll vast surges thundering to the shore. 
 The cordage breaks, the seamen raise their cries, 
 Clouds veil the smiling day and cheerful skies; 
 Blue lightnings glare, redoubled thunder rolls. 
 And frowning darkness shrouds the dreary poles ! 
 
XU BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 While instant ruin threatening every eye, 
 Hangs on the waves, or lowers from the sky ! 
 
 A mighty wave descending from on high, 
 Death on its brow — before the hero's eye, 
 Fell on the ships which bore the Lycian crew 
 And headlong from his seat the pilot threw. 
 Thrice the swift vortex whirled the vessel round. 
 And straight ingulphed it in the deep profound ! 
 Then o'er the waves, in thick confusion spread, 
 Rose arms, and planks, and bodies of the dead." 
 
 During this absence he wrote a poetic letter to his 
 brother Austin. It contained one hundred and eighty 
 lines, of which the following have been preserved : — 
 
 " Once more the bard, with eager eye, reviews 
 The flowery path of Fancy, and the Muse 
 Once more essays to trill forgotten strains, 
 The loud amusement of his native plains. 
 Late you beheld me treading labor's round 
 To guide slow oxen o'er the furrowed ground; 
 The sturdy hoe or slender rake to ply 
 Midst dust and sweat, beneath a summer sky. 
 But now I pore o'er Virgil's glowing lines, 
 Where, famed in war, the great ^neas shines; 
 Where novel scenes around me seem to stand, 
 Lo ! grim Alecto whirls the flaming brand. 
 Dire jarring tumult, death and battle rage. 
 Fierce armies close, and daring chiefs engage; 
 Mars thunders furious from his flying car, 
 And hoarse-toned clarions stir the raging war. 
 Nor with less splendor does his master hand 
 Paint the blue skies, the ocean, and the land; 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xill 
 
 Majestic mountains rear their awful head, 
 
 Fair plains extend and bloomy vales are spread. 
 
 The rugged cliff in threatening grandeur towers, 
 
 And joy sports smiling in Arcadian bowers; 
 
 In silent calm the expanded ocean sleeps, 
 
 Or boisterous whirlwinds toss the rising deeps; 
 
 Triumphant vessels o'er his rolling tide 
 
 With painted prows and gaudy streamers glide." 
 
 It will be seen that Bryant had easily caught the trick 
 of the classic English couplet. It is interesting to note 
 that in the poems, which he was afterwards willing to 
 father, there is not a single example of this monotonous, 
 artificial verse. The little autobiographic touches in the 
 first ten lines of the " Epistle " point back to the strenuous 
 days of his boyhood, when, in spite of his feeble health, he 
 had to lend a hand in keeping the wolf from the door. 
 But he might have made the third and fourth lines truer 
 to the fact had he changed his native plains to hills and 
 rhymed it with trills, which was, as it were, latent in the 
 preceding line ! 
 
 Bryant remained with his uncle until July, 1809. Dur- 
 ing the eight months of his Latin studies there he read 
 the " Colloquies of Corderius," all of Virgil, and a volume 
 of Cicero's orations. 
 
 He then spent more than a year under the roof of the 
 Rev. Moses Halleck or Hallock of Plainfield — a gentle- 
 man, Bryant says, " somewhat famous for preparing youths 
 for college, and his house was called by some the Bread- 
 and-Milk College, for the reason that bread-and-milk was 
 a frequent dish at the good man's table." Here in two 
 months' time he " knew the Greek Testament as if it had 
 been English." 
 
XIV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 He entered Williams College, then a poor struggling 
 institution with a president, one professor, and two tutors. 
 He was still interested in politics, but had transferred his 
 vials of Federalist wrath from Jefferson to Napoleon. The 
 following " outbreak of patriotic valor " is preserved with 
 its date, January 8, i8io. 
 
 THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA. 
 
 " Far in the regions of the west. 
 
 On throne of adamant upraised. 
 Bright on whose polished sides impressed, 
 The Sun's meridian splendors blazed, 
 
 Columbia's Genius sat and eyed 
 
 The Eastern despot's dire career. 
 And thus with independent pride. 
 
 She spoke and bade the nations hear : — 
 
 ' Go, favored son of glory, go ! 
 
 Thy dark aspiring aims pursue ! 
 The blast of domination blow. 
 
 Earth's wide extended regions through ! 
 
 ' Tho' Austria, twice subjected, own 
 The thunders of thy conquering hand, 
 
 And Tyranny erect his throne 
 In hapless Sweden's fallen land ! 
 
 ' Yet' know, a nation lives, whose soul 
 
 Regards thee with disdainful eye; 
 Undaunted scorns thy proud control. 
 
 And dares thy swarming hordes defy; 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XV 
 
 * Unshaken as their native rocks, 
 
 Its hardy sons heroic rise; 
 Prepared to meet thy fiercest shocks, 
 
 Protected by the favoring skies. 
 
 ' Their fertile plains and woody hills 
 Are fanned by freedom's purest gales ! 
 
 And her celestial presence fills 
 
 The deepening glens and spacious vales.' 
 
 She speaks; through all her listening bands 
 
 A loud applauding murmur flies; 
 Fresh valor nerves their willing hands, 
 
 And lights with joy their glowing eyes ! 
 
 Then should Napoleon's haughty pride 
 Wake on our shores the fierce affray; 
 
 Grim Terror lowering at his side 
 Attendant on his furious way ! 
 
 With quick repulse, his baffled band 
 Would seek the friendly shore in vain; 
 
 Bright Justice lift her red right hand 
 And crush them on the fatal plain." 
 
 Bryant was educated in accordance with the Calvinistic 
 system of theology. " In a community so religious," he 
 says, " I naturally acquired habits of devotion. My mother 
 and grandmother had taught me, as soon as I could speak, 
 the Lord's Prayer and other little petitions suited ^o child- 
 hood, and I may be said to have ^^.-nurture^ on Watts's 
 devout poems composed for childre^^^-The prayer of the 
 publican in the New Testament was often in my ftiouth, 
 
xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 and I heard every variety of prayer at the Sunday evening 
 services conducted by laymen in private houses. But I 
 varied in my private devotions from these models in one 
 respect; namely, in supplicating, as I often did, that I 
 might receive the gift of poetic genius and write verses 
 that might endure. I presented this petition in those early 
 years with great fervor, but after a time I discontinued 
 the practice, I can hardly say why." 
 
 Perhaps it was because he had become conscious of 
 having received the gift. 
 
 Byrant entered college a year in advance, but he 
 remained only seven months with his class. He was 
 described as "well advanced in his sixteenth year, tall 
 and slender in his physical structure, and having a prolific 
 growth of dark brown hair." 
 
 While he was at Williams, he wrote an "Indian War 
 Song," which began thus: — 
 
 " Ghosts of my wounded brethren rest, 
 
 Shades of the warrior-dead ! 
 Nor weave, in shadowy garment drest 
 
 The death-dance round my bed; 
 For by the homes in which we dwelt. 
 And by the altars where we knelt. 
 
 And by our dying battle songs, 
 And by the trophies of your pride. 
 And by the wounds of which ye died, 
 
 I swear to avenge your wrongs." 
 
 The North American Indian exercised a strange and 
 unconquerable fascination on the muse which inspired all 
 our early poets: Longfellow, Whittier, and Bryant were 
 deeply enamoured of the poetic hues which hung over the 
 aborigine. A century of dishonor has had its retroactive 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xvil 
 
 effect. The Red Skin has vanished from modern verse, as 
 he has vanished from our denuded hills. 
 
 Another of Bryant's college exercises was a translation 
 from Anacreon, which still exists in two forms, one pre- 
 served by his roommate, John Avery, the other Bryant's 
 attempt to reproduce it by memory. It has been favorably 
 compared with Moore's version : — 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 " Lo ! fragrant spring returns again 
 With all the Graces in her train ! 
 See, charmed to life the budding rose 
 Its meek and purple eyes unclose; 
 Mark how the ocean's dimpling breast 
 Slow swelling sinks in tranquil rest ! 
 O'er the green billow heaving wide 
 The sportive sea-fowls gently glide; 
 The crane returned from tropic shores 
 Bends his long neck and proudly soars. 
 Clear smiles the sun with constant ray 
 And melts the shadowy mists away; 
 The works of busy man appear 
 Fair smiling with the smiling year; 
 With future plenty teems the earth, 
 And gives the swelling olive birth. 
 Haste, quick the genial goblet bring 
 Crowned with the earliest flowers of spring, 
 While ruddy fruits defending bloom 
 Where late the Tjlossom breathed perfume, 
 Along the bending bough are seen 
 Or peep beneath the foliage green." 
 
 One of the exercises at Williams was declamation. 
 Bryant attempted to deliver a passage from " Knicker- 
 
xvill BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 bocker's History of New York," but the humor of the 
 work so convulsed him that he could not proceed with it. 
 The young poet evidently did not form a wholly favor- 
 able idea of Williamstown. He wrote a satire on it in 
 which he spoke of it as — 
 
 "Hemmed in with hills, whose heads aspire 
 Abrupt and rude and hung with woods," 
 
 but the climate abuses it now with " a lengthened blaze of 
 drought," and again "with the tempest's copious floods." 
 
 " A frozen desert now it lies 
 And now a sea of mud," 
 
 from which deleterious exhalations rise, 
 
 "And hover o'er the unconscious vale, 
 And sleep upon the mountain side." 
 
 As for the college — 
 
 " Why should I sing those reverend domes 
 
 Where science rests in grave repose? 
 Ah me ! their terrors and their glooms 
 
 Only the wretched inmate knows. 
 Where through the horror-breathing hall 
 The pale-faced, moping students crawl 
 
 Like spectral monuments of woe; 
 Or, drooping, seek the unwholesome cell 
 Where shade, and dust, and cobwebs dwell, 
 
 Dark, dirty, dank, and low." 
 
 If that was the way he felt, it was not strange that he 
 should make up his mind to leave Williams and enter 
 the junior class at Yale; but greatly to his disappointment 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XIX 
 
 his father discovered that his means did not allow him 
 to maintain him there. " I have always thought this un- 
 fortunate for me," wrote Bryant, "since it left me but 
 superficially acquainted with several branches of educa- 
 tion which a college course would have enabled me to 
 master and would have given me greater readiness in their 
 application." Perhaps it was not so much of a loss as he 
 thought. 
 
 He returned home much to the delight of his younger 
 brothers and sisters, whose leader he was in all sports 
 and wanderings. His brother Arthur remembered their 
 antiphonal declamation of William Cullen's translations 
 from the " Oidipous " of Euripides: — 
 
 STROPHE I. 
 
 " Where is the wretch condemned to death 
 
 From Delphi's rock sublime? 
 Who bears upon his hands of blood 
 
 The inexpiable crime? 
 Oh, swifter than the winged pace 
 
 Of stormy-footed steed, 
 Fly, murderer, fly the wrath that waits 
 
 The unutterable deed ! 
 For lo ! he follows on thy path 
 
 Who fell before thee late 
 With gleaming arms and glowing flame, 
 
 And fierce, avenging hate. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE I. 
 
 I heard the God of prophecies 
 
 From high Parnassus speak, 
 Where lurks the guilty fugitive 
 
 Apollo bids us seek? 
 
XX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 'Mong rocks and caves and shadowy woods 
 
 And wild untrodden ways, 
 As some lone ox that leaves the herd, 
 
 The trembling outlaw strays; 
 Yet vainly from impending doom 
 
 The assassin strives to haste; 
 It lives and keeps eternal watch. 
 
 Amid the pathless waste." 
 
 While " through the long laborious day " — ("for mine 
 has been the peasant's toil " he sings) — he " hummed the 
 meditated lay, while the slow oxen turned the soil," he 
 was all the time laying up a store of sound health on which 
 he drew all his long life. But he also found opportunities 
 to explore his father's medical library; he acquired a con- 
 siderable knowledge of chemistry; he became an accom- 
 plished botanist; and he devoured and assimilated a vast 
 quantity of ancient and modern poetry. He translated 
 four of Lucian's " Dialogues of the Dead" into prose, 
 made versions of several odes of Anakreon, one of Bion's 
 idyls, various choruses from Sophokles and other Greek 
 poetry, and wrote original poems that showed the influence 
 of Wordsworth, Cowper, Thomson, and Southey. Kirke 
 White also during that spring and summer of i8io exerted 
 a peculiar fascination upon him. He called his verses 
 recently published, "Melodies of Death." Blair's poem, 
 "The Grave," and another by Bishop Porteus, strongly 
 affected him, and stirred him to the composition of a poem 
 which Stoddard calls " the greatest ever written by so 
 young a man. " He coined a name for it — " Thanatopsis ; 
 or, a View of Death." But he did not show it to any of 
 his friends; he hid it in a pigeon-hole of his father's desk. 
 
 Instead of following the paternal ancestral profession 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxi 
 
 of medicine, the young man finally selected that of the 
 law, which seemed to offer the readiest ladder to the 
 public career of which he dreamed. 
 
 He was accordingly sent in June, 1812, to the law-office 
 of a Mr. Howe of Worthington — a village which he 
 described as " consisting of a blacksmith-shop and a cow- 
 stable," while "the only entertainment it afforded was 
 bound up in the pages of Knickerbocker.''^ Mr. Howe 
 found him one day reading Wordsworth's " Lyrical Bal- 
 lads," and warned him against such a sad waste of time. 
 
 It was a stirring time politically; but if Bryant cast his 
 feelings in the form of verse, nothing of it is preserved 
 except a Fourth of July ode written at the request of the 
 Washington Benevolent Society of Boston : — 
 
 " Should justice call to battle. 
 
 The applauding shout we'd raise; 
 A million swords would leave their sheath, 
 
 A million bayonets blaze. 
 The stern resolve, the courage high, 
 
 The mind untam'd by ill. 
 The fires that warmed our leader's breast 
 
 His followers' bosoms fill. 
 Our fathers bore the shock of war; 
 
 Their sons can bear it still ! 
 
 The same ennobling spirit 
 
 That kindles valor's flame. 
 That nerves us to a war of right, 
 
 Forbids a war of shame ; 
 For not in Conquest's impious train 
 
 Shall Freedom's children stand; 
 Nor shall in guilty fray be raised 
 
 The high-souled warrior's hand. 
 
xxn BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Nor shall the patriot draw the sword 
 At Gallia's proud command. 
 
 No ! by our fathers' ashes, 
 
 And by their sacred cause, 
 The Gaul shall never call us slaves, 
 
 Shall never give us laws; 
 Even let him from a swarming fleet 
 
 Debark his veteran host, 
 A living wall of patriot hearts 
 
 Shall fence the frowning coast, — 
 A bolder race than generous Spain, 
 
 A better cause we boast." 
 
 The silence of his political muse has been attributed to 
 a more personal experience. In August, 1812, a dis- 
 tinguished friend of his father's, brought with him on a 
 visit to Cummington, "a beautiful and accomplished 
 daughter," " with golden hair, eyes emulating the gleaming 
 jacinth," "of timid look and soft, retiring mien," . . . 
 "moist lip and airy grace of frame." Bryant discovered 
 that "the unbidden flame," wakened by these charms, 
 "the dawn of love" betrayed. Quite a pathetic ^ittle 
 romance is read between the lines that he wrote during the 
 next few months. First he deliberates and queries : — 
 
 " Yes, I have listened all too long, 
 Deluder ! to thy syren song. 
 Ah, love ! when first its musick led 
 My cheated steps thy paths to tread, 
 I never dreamed those airs divine, 
 And those fair, quiet walks were thine. 
 
 And I would once have scoffed in scorn 
 At him who dared pronounce me born 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxili 
 
 To bend at beauty's shrine enchained, 
 And do the homage I disdained; 
 I little thought the hour to see, 
 When a blue eye could madden me. 
 
 I seek the scenes that once I sought 
 To bring high dreams and holy thought, 
 That gave my early numbers birth, 
 The unpeopled majesty of earth — 
 One image still too loved to fade 
 Is with me in the lonely shade. 
 
 Yet, sometimes there dejected strays 
 The genius of my better days : 
 And I am troubled when I trace 
 The darkened grandeur of his face, 
 While thus he breathes his warnings high, 
 Betwixt rebuke and prophecy. 
 
 When riper years this dream dispel, 
 Thy heart shall rue its folly well; 
 And thou with bitter tears shalt gaze 
 On the black train of wasted days; 
 And curse the withering spell at length. 
 That broke thy spirit's early strength. 
 
 There were, in early life of thee, 
 
 Who augured high and happily; 
 
 Who loved and watched the opening shoot. 
 
 And propped the stem and looked for fruit; 
 
 And they shall see its blossoms die, 
 
 Withered before a woman's eye." 
 
XXIV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 He yields, however; then comes separation: — 
 
 "The home thy presence made so dear, 
 I leave — the parting hour is past; 
 Yet thy sweet image haunts me here, 
 In tears, as when I saw thee last. 
 
 It meets me where the woods are deep, 
 It comes when twilight tints depart; 
 
 It bends above me while I sleep, 
 
 With pensive looks that pierce my heart." 
 
 A year later (1814) he calls her to return from her sea- 
 shore home to the hills : — 
 
 " Come, Galatea ! hath the unlovely main 
 A charm thy gentle gazes to detain? 
 Spring dwells in beauty here; her thousand flowers 
 The glad earth here about the river pours; 
 Here o'er the grotto's mouth the poplars play; 
 Here the knit vines exclude the prying day. 
 Come, Galatea ! bless this calm retreat : 
 Come, leave the maniack seas their bounds to beat ! " 
 
 She heard; she came; she was complaisant: — 
 
 " The gales of June were breathing by, 
 
 The twilight's last faint rays were gleaming, 
 And midway in the moonless sky, 
 
 The star of Jove was brightly beaming. 
 
 Where by the stream the birchen boughs 
 Dark o'er the level marge were playing, 
 
 The maiden of my secret vows 
 I met alone, and idly straying. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXV 
 
 And since that hour — for then my love 
 Consenting heard my passion pleaded — 
 
 Full well she knows the star of Jove, 
 
 And loves the stream with beeches shaded." 
 
 Again he sings of her in Spenserian stanza, as Horace 
 says, " all golden " : — 
 
 " Dear are these heights, tho' bleak their sides they raise, 
 
 For here, as forth in lonely walk we fare. 
 Her cheek to mine soft Evelina lays. 
 
 And breathes those gentle vows that none may share. 
 
 Mine is her earliest flame, her virgin care, 
 The look of love her speaking eye that fills. 
 
 To the known shade, when Eve's consenting star 
 Sees his soft image in the trembling rills, 
 My lovely Oread comes, my charmer of the hills." 
 
 He has to call old Bion to aid him express his feel- 
 ings : — 
 
 " Hail, holy star of love, thou fairest gem 
 
 Of all that twinkle in the veil of night ! 
 As the broad moon to thee, so thou to them 
 
 Superior in beauty beamest bright. 
 
 Lend me, while she delays, thy tender light; 
 Thou for whom Sol, to yield his turn to thine. 
 
 Stooped to the glowing west his hastened flight; 
 On deeds of quiet I call thee not to shine, 
 Not thefts, but those of love, and mutual love is mine." 
 
 But the star of Jove must set, the moon become veiled: 
 young love is crossed : — 
 
 *' Ah, who would tempt the hopeless spell 
 Whose magic binds the slaves of love? 
 
XXVI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 The heart his power has touched can tell 
 How false to peace his flatteries prove. 
 
 Each silent sign by passion taught 
 
 To tell the wish that thrills the breast; 
 
 The gaze with speechless meaning fraught 
 The glowing lip in secret prest; 
 
 The stolen hour by moonlight past, 
 
 When hands are met, and sighs are deep; 
 
 Are wanderings all, for which at last 
 
 The heart must bleed, the eye must weep." 
 
 First comes the rapture, then comes the rupture : — 
 
 " I knew thee fair, I deemed thee free 
 
 From fraud, and guile, and faithless art; 
 Yet had I seen as now I see. 
 
 Thine image ne'er had stained my heart. 
 
 Trust not too far thy beauty's charms; 
 
 Tho' fair the hand that wove my chain, 
 I will not stoop with fettered arms 
 
 To do the homage I disdain. 
 
 Yes, Love has lost his power to wound. 
 
 I gave the treacherous homicide, 
 With bow unstrung and pinions bound, 
 
 A captive to the hands of Pride." 
 
 A collateral or subordinate morbid strain attended this 
 effort to escape from the bondage of a love less" mutual " 
 than he had dreamed. Three poems, making a sort of 
 cantata, are the outcome of it. His " dear one " is dead 
 to him. He therefore imagines her in the dark and silent 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXVll 
 
 tomb. Death even sends her as a messenger to add her 
 persuasions to those of the ghosts. 
 
 A CHORUS OF GHOSTS. 
 
 *' Come to thy couch of iron rest ! 
 Come share our silent bed ! 
 There 's room within the graveyard's bounds 
 To lay thy weary head. 
 
 Come, thou shalt have a home like ours, 
 
 A low and narrow cell. 
 With a gray stone to mark the spot; 
 
 For thee the turf shall swell. 
 
 Cold are its walls — but not for thee — 
 
 And dark, but thou shalt sleep; 
 Unfelt, the enclosing clods above 
 
 Their endless guard shall keep. 
 
 Yes, o'er thee where thy lyre was strung 
 
 Thine earliest haunts to hail, 
 Shall the tall crow-foot's yellow gems 
 
 Bend in the mountain gale. 
 
 There, as he seeks his tardy kine. 
 
 When flames the evening sky. 
 With thoughtful look the college boy 
 
 Shall pass thy dwelling by. 
 
 Why shudder at that rest so still, 
 
 That night of solid gloom? 
 If refuge thou wouldst seek from woe, 
 
 'T is in the dreamless tomb. 
 
xxvili BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 There is no tie that binds to life, 
 No charm that wins thy stay; 
 
 To-morrow none will recollect 
 That thou didst live to-day. 
 
 Come, we will close thy glazing eye, 
 
 Compose thy dying head; 
 And gently from its house of clay 
 
 Thy struggling spirit lead." 
 
 APPEAL TO DEATH. 
 
 " The night has reached its solemn noon; 
 
 And, blotting half the sky, 
 The clouds before the westering moon 
 
 In broad black masses lie. 
 No voice is heard, no living sound. 
 
 Not even the zephyr's breath; 
 And I, where sheds the grove profound 
 A night of deeper horror round, 
 
 High converse hold with death. 
 
 He comes, but not the spectre grim 
 
 By fabling dreamers planned, 
 With wickered ribs and fleshless limb. 
 
 And scythe and ebbing sand, 
 But dim as through the polar shade, 
 
 When sails the gathering storm; 
 A shadowy presence vast and dread, 
 In terrors wrapt, which ne'er arrayed 
 
 Distinguishable form. 
 
 By all the dying feel and fear, 
 By every fiery throe. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXIX 
 
 By all that tells thy triumphs here, 
 
 And all we dread below; 
 By those dim realms, those portals pale 
 
 Whose keys 't is thine to keep, 
 I charge thee, tell the thrilling tale, 
 I charge thee, draw aside the veil 
 
 That hides the dear one's sleep." 
 
 death's messenger. 
 
 *' It was my love; that form I knew, 
 
 The same, that glazed unmoving eye; 
 And that pure cheek of bloodless hue. 
 As when she slept with those that die. 
 
 Why leave thy quiet cell for me? 
 
 Have not my tears been duly shed? 
 Have I not taught the willow-tree 
 
 To weep with me above thy head ? 
 
 And called the earliest blooms of May, 
 The latest sweets that autumn knows, 
 
 To strew thy grave, and brush away 
 From the cold turf the winter snows? 
 
 I deemed that thou my dreams wouldst bless, 
 A seraph flusht with heavenly bloom, 
 
 And gild with gleams of happiness 
 My few brief years of care and gloom. 
 
 But oh ! that eye is ghastly bright, 
 
 It glares with death, as mine will soon; 
 
 And that blanched brow is cold and white 
 As the pale mist beneath the moon. 
 
XXX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Oh, wave not that dim hand again ! 
 
 Oh, point not to thy lowly cell ! 
 For visions flash across my brain, 
 
 And thoughts too horrible to tell. 
 
 I may not follow thee, my love, 
 
 Nor now thy dreamless slmnber share. 
 
 The cold clods press thy limbs above, 
 And darkness and the worm are there. 
 
 Yet a few hom's, and Nature's hand 
 Itself shall sorrow's balm apply; 
 
 And I shall bless the kind command 
 
 That cools this brow and seals this eye." 
 
 When a young man falls into such a morbid state as 
 that a change is desirable. Bryant would have been glad 
 to go to Boston, but his father wrote him, "You have 
 already cost me four hundred dollars at Mr. Howe's, and 
 I have other children equally entitled to my care." 
 
 His grandfather, Dr. Philip Bryant, was still living at 
 Bridgewater, and offered him a home while he should 
 pursue his studies with the Hon. William Baylies, M.C. 
 Here Bryant worked diligently; he wrote: — 
 
 "O'er Coke's black-letter page, 
 Trimming the lamp at eve, 't is mine to pore, 
 
 Well pleased to see the venerable sage 
 Unlock his treasured wealth of legal lore; 
 And I that loved to trace the woods before 
 
 And climb the hills, a playmate of the breeze, 
 Have vowed to tune the rural lay no more. 
 
 Have bid my useless classics sleep at ease, 
 And left the race of bards to scribble, starve, and 
 freeze," 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXXI 
 
 He had not been a month in Bridgewater before he was 
 called upon to deliver the Fourth of July ode for the year 
 1814. He deplored the folly and ravages of war, rejoiced 
 in the fall of Napoleon, praised England for her valor and 
 persistency, and upbraided the Americans for not taking 
 a hand in European affairs : — 
 
 "Our skies have glowed with burning towns, 
 
 Our snows have blushed with gore; 
 And fresh is many a nameless grave 
 
 By Erie's weeping shore. 
 In sadness let the anthem flow — 
 
 But tell the men of strife, 
 On their own heads shall rest the guilt 
 
 Of all this waste of life. 
 
 Well have ye fought, ye friends of man. 
 
 Well was your valor shown; 
 The grateful nations breathe from war — 
 
 The tyrant lies o'erthrown. 
 Well might ye tempt the dangerous fray. 
 
 Well dare the desperate deed: — 
 Ye knew how just your cause — ye knew 
 
 The voice that bade ye bleed. 
 
 To thee the mighty plan we owe 
 
 That bade the world be free; 
 The thanks of nations, Queen of Isles ! 
 
 Are poured to heaven and thee; 
 Yes, hadst not thou, with fearless arm. 
 
 Stayed the descending scourge; 
 These strains, that chant a nation's birth, 
 Had haply hymned its dirge." 
 
xxxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 These specimens of verse more vigorous than poetic 
 show a healthier tone. The tonic of change was working. 
 
 Mr. BayHes made a confidential secretary of the young 
 student, and during his absence in Washington intrusted 
 him with the care of his business. 
 
 He did not entirely scorn pleasure. In a letter to a 
 Worthington friend he wrote how well contented he was, 
 and though he mourned " such cool, comfortable lounging- 
 places " as Ward's store, and Mills's tavern, and Taylor's 
 grog-shop, would not exchange Bridgewater for Worthing- 
 ton "if the wealth of the Indies were thrown into that 
 side of the balance." Occasional balls, excursions with 
 young ladies, who even when they danced till three o'clock 
 in the morning were the next day " wonderfully sociable 
 and alert," and marching with the militia, offered diver- 
 sions. 
 
 If he still meditated on death it was with a less morbid 
 spirit, as is shown by a poem dated, July, 1815 : — 
 
 " Oh, thou whom the world dreadeth ! Art thou nigh, 
 
 To thy pale kingdom. Death, to summon me? 
 While life's scarce-tasted cup yet charms my eye, 
 
 And yet my youthful blood is dancing free 
 
 And fair in prospect smiles futurity. 
 Go, to the crazed with care thy quiet bring; 
 
 Go to the galleyslave who pines for thee; 
 Go to the wretch whom throes of torture wring, 
 And they will bless thy hand, that plucks the fiery sting. 
 
 I from thine icy touch with horror shrink, 
 
 That leads me to the place where all must lie; 
 
 And bitter is my misery to think 
 
 That in the springtime of my being, I 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxxill 
 
 Must leave this pleasant land, and this fair sky; 
 All this hath charmed me from my feeble birth; 
 
 The friends I love, and every gentle tie; 
 All that disposed to thought, or waked to mirth; 
 And lay me darkly down, and mix with the dull earth." 
 
 In November he was taken ill and obliged to return to 
 his home. While there he read "Lara," but judged that 
 it could not be Byron's, because it showed so little of his 
 energy of expression, his exuberance of thought, the 
 peculiar vein of melancholy which imparts its tinge to 
 everything he writes, in fact, of all the stronger features 
 of his genius. In a letter to Mr. Baylies he asks: " May 
 it not be the effort of some American genius? " 
 
 The following year, July 25, 18 1 6, Bryant received a 
 commission as adjvitant in the Massachusetts militia, but 
 the end of the war, which expired in a blaze of glory at 
 the battle of New Orleans, made it an empty honor. 
 Little did the world realize what treasonable sentiments the 
 youth had been indulging in his letters to his father. He 
 had even advocated possible secession ! The following 
 stanzas from an ode written for the Howard Society of 
 Boston show that he was not sorry for peace : — 
 
 " Ah, taught by many a woe and fear, 
 We welcome thy returning wing; 
 
 And Earth, O Peace ! is glad to hear 
 Thy name among her echoes ring. 
 And Winter looks a lovelier Spring, 
 
 And hoarsely though his tempest roars. 
 The gale that •drives our sleet shall bring 
 
 The world's large commerce to our shores. 
 
XXXlV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 My country pierced with many a wound ! 
 
 Thy pulse with slow recovery beats. 
 War flies our shores, but all around 
 
 The eye his bloody footprint meets, 
 
 As when the dewy morning greets, 
 Serene in smiles and rosy light. 
 
 Some prostrate city through whose streets 
 The earthquake past at dead of night." 
 
 In August, 1815, Bryant, who had passed his examina- 
 tions at Plymouth (the certificate duly sprinkled with 
 snuff instead of sand), was admitted as an attorney of the 
 court of common pleas. He returned to Cummington, 
 and there, with childish things (for he was about to reach 
 his majority), he threw aside forever what Mr. Parke God- 
 win calls "his boyish heroics, those Tyrtaean drum-beats; 
 his amatory sobs and sighs are suppressed; his worked 
 colloquies with Death are outgrown." He now begins to 
 study nature. Here are a few unfinished sketches show- 
 ing the growth of the new spirit : — 
 
 "The cloudless heavens are cold and bright, 
 The shrieking blast is in the sky; 
 And all the long autumnal night 
 Whirl the dry leaves in eddies by. 
 
 The sun is risen, but wan and chill. 
 
 Wades through a broken cloud; 
 And in the woods that clothe the hill 
 
 November winds are loud. 
 
 Hark ! how with frantic wing the blast 
 Buffets the forest bare. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXXV 
 
 Though long ago its branches cast 
 The last dry leaflet there. 
 
 The new-risen sun's mild rays adorn, 
 
 The clouds beneath him rolled; 
 And the first scarlet tints of morn 
 
 Have brightened into gold. 
 With many a note the wild is cheered; 
 
 With many a rustling foot resounds; 
 The squirrel's merry chirp is heard; 
 
 From knoll to knoll the rabbit bounds; 
 The woodpecker amidst the shade 
 
 Is heard his drumming bill to ply; 
 On whirring wings along the glade 
 
 Sweeps the brown partridge by. 
 
 Now, ere she bids our fields adieu 
 
 With fragrant fingers June delights, 
 Profuse with flowers of sunny hue, 
 
 To clothe our plains and grassy heights, 
 Through banks of gold the stream is rolled. 
 
 That half its gleaming waters hide ; 
 
 In gold the mountain rears its pride, 
 
 In gold the sloping vales subside, 
 The meadows wave in gold. 
 
 On either side along the road 
 
 Glitters a yellow margin gay, 
 But where the heifer crops her food, 
 
 Less glowing tints the tract betray; 
 And far around as eye can see, 
 
 One blossomed waste is all the scene, 
 
 Save verdant cornfields stretched between 
 . Or groves or orchards rising green 
 In sumnier majesty." 
 
XXX VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Even before he left Bridgewater he had written "The 
 Yellow Violet." ^ The " Fragment " now known as " An 
 Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood," ^ was composed 
 in the noble forest opposite his father's house. 
 
 In December he determined to settle in Plainfield, a 
 hamlet about seven miles away and visible from his own 
 home. He went there on foot, feeling very forlorn and 
 desolate. Across the brilliant sunshiny sky flew a solitary 
 bird. That night he wrote "The Waterfowl,"^ which 
 alone would have made him immortal. 
 
 Plainfield was too small and obscure for such a man. 
 He disliked the narrowness, bigotry, and jealousy of the 
 natives. Yet he wrote: " I could have made a living out 
 of them in spite of their teeth had I chosen to stay. He 
 stayed there eight months, and then moved to Great Bar- 
 rington, where he entered into practice with George H. 
 Ives, Esq. 
 
 Here he was attacked by a disease of the lungs which 
 wasted him to a shadow. His father and sister were 
 already doomed by that same insidious foe of New Eng- 
 land. But Bryant conquered it by systematic exercise, 
 and great care of his diet. 
 
 In spite of his poor health, he for some time devoted 
 himself to business, and paid no heed to the imperative 
 calls of the Muses. His father wrote him that Mr. Wil- 
 lard Phillips was desirous that he should " contribute some- 
 thing to his new review." This was the North A))ierican 
 Review, which had been started in May, 1815. 
 
 Dr. Bryant happened to find " Thanatopsis," "The 
 Fragment," and a few other poems in his desk. Without 
 saying anything to his son he copied them, took them to 
 Boston, and left them with the editor. Phillips was 
 
 1 p. 169. 2 p. 122. 2 p. jg^^ 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxxvii 
 
 delighted with them and showed them to Richard H. 
 Dana. Dana exclaimed, — 
 
 "Ah, Phillips! you have been imposed upon; no one 
 on this side the Atlantic is capable of writing such verses." 
 Phillips replied, — 
 
 " I know the gentleman who wrote the best of them, at 
 least, very well; an old acquaintance of mine — Dr. 
 Bryant, at this moment sitting in the State House in 
 Boston, as Senator from Hampshire County." 
 
 Dana made a pilgrimage to the State House, had a good 
 look at the supposed poet, and decided against him. " It 
 is a good head," he said " but I do not see ' Thanatopsis ' 
 in it." 
 
 Of course the truth as to its authorship was soon known, 
 and Bryant was invited to contribute regularly to the 
 Review. 
 
 Meantime he was progressing in his profession, irksome 
 as it was to him, for his heart was not and could not be 
 in it. He bought out his partner, and in 1819 was chosen 
 tithing-man, and town clerk, and made justice of the peace. 
 
 His father died in March, 1820, but this sad loss was 
 atoned to him by the acquaintance, speedily ripening into 
 love, of Miss Fanny Fairchild, the orphan daughter of 
 respectable farming people. She was eighteen; " a very 
 pretty blonde, small in person, with light brown hair, 
 gray eyes, a graceful shape, a dainty foot, transparent and 
 delicate hands, and a wonderfully frank and sweet expres- 
 sion of face." 
 
 Bryant celebrated her in tender ditties — only one of 
 which, "Oh, Fairest of the Rural Maids," 1 Bryant re- 
 tained among his published works. 
 
 ^ p. 126. 
 
xxxvill BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 One other is given by Mr. Godwin: — 
 
 "Though summer sun and freshening shower 
 Have decked my love's deserted bower, 
 Though bees about the threshold come 
 Among the scented blooms to hum, 
 Though there the bind-weed climbs and weaves 
 Her spotted veil of flowers and leaves, 
 Though sweet the spot, I cannot bear 
 To gaze a single instant there. 
 
 Ah ! there no longer deigns to dwell 
 
 The peerless one I love so well; 
 
 And vainly may I linger near, 
 
 The musick of her step to hear. 
 
 And catch the spheres of azure light — 
 
 The glance my heart has proved too bright; 
 
 Fair is the spot — I own it fair. 
 
 But cannot look an instant there ! 
 
 That was written in 1 8 19, while Miss Fairchild was 
 visiting in Western New York. On her return, he engaged 
 himself to her, and they were married June 1 1, 1821. 
 
 In a letter whimsically describing the melancholy cere- 
 mony, which included the muttering of certain cabalistic 
 expressions, which he declared himself too frightened to 
 recollect, he assures his mother that he has not "played 
 the fool and married an Ethiop for the jewel in her ear," 
 He says, — 
 
 "I looked only for goodness of heart, an ingenuous and 
 affectionate disposition, a good understanding, etc., and 
 the character of my wife is too frank and single-hearted 
 to suffer me to fear that I may be disappointed. I do 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxxix 
 
 myself a wrong; I did not look for these nor any other 
 qualities, but they trapped me before I was aware, and 
 now I am married in spite of myself." 
 
 His mother is said to have exclaimed on reading that 
 letter, — 
 
 "He make a fool of himself! He has never done so 
 yet, and could n't if he tried ! " 
 
 The spirit with which he entered into the solemn con- 
 tract is shown in a prayer, written before the marriage, 
 found among his papers. It begins: — 
 
 *' May Almighty God mercifully take care of our happi- 
 ness, here and hereafter. May we ever continue constant 
 to each other, and mindful of our mutual promises of 
 attachment and truth. In due time, if it be the will of 
 Providence, may we become more nearly connected with 
 each other, and together may we lead a long, happy, and 
 innocent life, without any diminution of affection, till we 
 die. May there never be any jealousy, distrust, coldness, 
 or dissatisfaction between us, nor occasion for any, nothing 
 but kindness, forbearance, mutual confidence, and atten- 
 tion to each other's happiness. And that we may be less 
 unworthy of so great a blessing, may we be assisted to 
 cultivate all the benign and charitable affections and offices, 
 not only toward each other, but toward our neighbors, 
 the human race, and all the creatures of God." 
 
 It was Mr. Bryant's duty as town clerk to publish the 
 banns of marriage, but in his own case, instead of reading 
 them aloud, as usual, he pinned the required notice on the 
 vestibule door of the church, and kept out of sight. The 
 only blot on the town records, which he kept with 
 remarkable neatness, was when he recorded his marriage, 
 and afterwards, the only interlineation was when in enter- 
 ing the birth of his first child, he accidentally left out the 
 mother's name. 
 
xl BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 A few months after his marriage, Bryant was invited to 
 deliver the poem for the $. b- K. Society, at Cambridge. 
 He decided to accept the honor, and during his visit 
 made the personal acquaintance of all the literati of 
 Boston. His poem was entitled "The Ages." Bryant 
 was no orator, and his delivery was rather monotonous, 
 but the occasion was a success, considering "the grave 
 and elevated tone of the poem." 
 
 His new friends insisted that he should publish his 
 poems in a volume, and shortly after his return to Great 
 Barrington, a pamphlet of forty-four pages appeared, con- 
 taining "The Ages," " To a Waterfowl," the "Frag- 
 ment from Simonides," the "Inscription," "The Yellow 
 Violet," "The Song," "Green River," and "Thana- 
 topsis." 
 
 The October number of the N'orth American Reviezv 
 printed an elaborate criticism of the poems, in which it 
 spoke of the "strain of pure and high sentiment that ran 
 through them, not indefinitely and obscurely shadowed," 
 but animating bright images and clear thoughts, of the 
 "simple and delicate portraiture of the subtle and ever- 
 vanishing beauties of nature which she seems willing to 
 conceal as her choicest things, and which none but minds 
 the most susceptible can seize, and no other but a writer 
 of great genius can body forth in words." 
 
 "The whole is of rich material, skilfully compacted." 
 Some people thought this praise exaggerated, but Mr. 
 Gulian C. Verplanck, of New York, a redoubtable critic, 
 chimed in with it, calling attention in the American to 
 " their exquisite taste, their keen relish for the beauties of 
 nature, their magnificent imagery, and their pure and 
 majestic morality." 
 
 The little volume attracted some attention, even in 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xli 
 
 England, where a writer in Blacktvood prophesied that 
 Bryant might assume a high rank among English poets. 
 Hartley Coleridge declared that " To a Waterfowl " was 
 the best short poem in the English language. 
 
 One of the most prominent families in Great Barrington 
 was that of Judge Sedgwick. Not long after the death of 
 Dr. Bryant, Mr. Henry D, Sewall, who was editing a Uni- 
 tarian Hymn Book, wrote to Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick, 
 urging her to enlist Bryant as a contributor. Miss Sedg- 
 wick invited Bryant to call upon her, and soon was able to 
 report the success of her mission. She described him as 
 a very interesting man, with a charming countenance and 
 modest but not bashful manners. 
 
 It was through the influence of the Sedgwicks he was 
 invited to deliver a Fourth of July oration at Stockbridge. 
 Theodore Sedgwick, Judge Sedgwick's second son, "a 
 man of many virtues," known as " a politician without 
 party vices," exerted a great influence upon him, and 
 probably was the first to incline him to the doctrine of 
 Free Trade. Mr. Henry Sedgwick, the eldest of the 
 family, was a prominent lawyer in New York. Bryant, 
 who was urged by his friends to write a long poem, but 
 did not believe in long poems, tried to write a farce in- 
 tended for the stage. It was entitled " The Heroes," and 
 was meant to ridicule the practice of duelling. Bryant 
 showed it to Charles Sedgwick, who sent it to his brother 
 Henry. If had some brisk and clever dialogues and 
 amusing situations, but Bryant had neither a comic nor a 
 dramatic genius, and the play was condemned. But Mr. 
 Henry Sedgwick, in returning the farce with his adverse 
 criticisms, urged Bryant to make New York his home. 
 He held out certain prospects of literary work, not very 
 great in themselves, but sufficiently alluring to decide 
 
xlii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Bryant to go on a prospecting tour. At first, nothing defi- 
 nite came of it. He widened his acquaintance with the 
 rising lights of our literature : met Cooper, Halleck, Sands, 
 Sparks, and others, and was fascinated with New York life. 
 
 On his return, the N'orth Ainerica7i Revieivh^iXi^ closed 
 to him on account of change in the editorial control, he 
 was invited to contribute to the United States Literaj-y 
 Gazette, a new Boston periodical, conducted by Theophilus 
 Parsons. During about two years' time, between 1823 and 
 1825, while he was writing for the Gazette, he produced 
 nearly thirty poems — his very best work. It is interest- 
 ing to know that he dernanded only two dollars apiece for 
 such poems as " The Massacre of Scio," " Rizpah," " Song 
 of the Greek Amazon," "The Murdered Traveller," 
 "Hymn to the North Star," "The Lapse of Time," 
 "The Song of the Stars," and " The Forest Hymn." The 
 publishers, however, appreciating his modesty, offered him 
 $200 a year for an average of one hundred lines a month, 
 and expressed "their profound regret that they were unable 
 to offer a compensation more adequate."- 
 
 This was better than what he got from his first book, 
 the profits of which on 270 copies sold out of 750 printed, 
 were $14.92. 
 
 Once a gentleman picked up a copy of this earliest edi- 
 tion. He told Bryant that he paid twenty dollars for it. 
 
 " More, by a long shot, than I received for writing the 
 whole work," replied the poet. 
 
 All the time he was pursuing the law, but with less and 
 less satisfaction, if with greater and greater success. He 
 argued cases in Northampton, New Haven, and even 
 Boston, and " evinced the very highest learning, acumen, 
 and assiduity " in his business. A case which, owing to 
 a mere technicality, was unjustly decided against one of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xliii 
 
 his clients, seems to have been the determining cause of his 
 abandonment of the law. Another reason may be found 
 in the death of his sister, Sarah Snell, in her twenty- 
 second year. It was with reference to her that he wrote 
 the sonnet on page i88, and to her are references in " The 
 Past " 1 and " The Death of the Flowers." 
 
 On Bryant's second visit to New York, in February, 
 1825, — the journey then took three days and a night, — 
 there was some prospect, as he wrote his wife, of a literary 
 paper to be established under his direction. He was 
 greatly disappointed in the failure of the project, but in 
 March he was back again, and associated with Mr. Henry 
 J. Anderson in the management of the Literary Review.^ 
 a bantling established the year before by Mr. Robert C. 
 Sands, author of " Yamoyden." 
 
 The first number appeared in June, and contained Hal- 
 leck's "Marco Bozzaris," Dana's "Raven," and Bry- 
 ant's " Song of Pitcairn's Island." 
 
 His first summer in the big city was rather trying. It 
 was intensely hot : the brunt of the editorial drudgery fell 
 on him. He was much alone. The prospects of the 
 journal were not very bright, and his salary was only a 
 thousand dollars a year. He boarded on Chambers Street, 
 near the Unitarian Church, in the family of a Frenchman 
 named Evrard, where he had a chance for practice in 
 French. His mood is shown in his poem on "June." "^ In 
 midsummer he was able to make a little visit to Cumming- 
 ton, and, under the inspiration of his native hills, he wrote 
 " The Skies " ^ and " Lines on Revisiting the Country." * 
 
 In the autumn he brought his family with him, and life 
 seemed fairer. He spent his leisure in perfecting his 
 French, and Provengal, and in acquiring Italian, Spanish, 
 ^ p. 14. ^ p. 144. 3 p, 186. * p. 172. 
 
xliv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 and Portuguese. His principal friends were Cooper, Ver- 
 planck, and Sands, and especially the refined and saintly 
 William Ware. 
 
 In the following April he delivered four lectures on 
 English Poetry. They were elementary and not profound, 
 but clear and well considered, and abounded in illustrative 
 material, showing insight and thought. Bryant also be- 
 came a professor in the newly organized National Acad- 
 emy of the Arts of Design, of which Mr. S. F. B. Morse, 
 afterwards the inventor of the telegraph, was the first 
 president. Bryant gave four lectures on "Mythology," 
 and repeated them for five years with distinguished suc- 
 cess. 
 
 In March, 1826, Bryant's Review and The New York 
 Literary Gazette was merged into the Netv York Literary 
 Gazette or Ame7-ican AthejKetim. Four months later this 
 high sounding but feeble venture was consolidated — if 
 things so unsubstantial could be called consolidated — with 
 The United States Gazette of Boston, under the title oi 
 The United States Review and Literary Gazette. 
 
 In this final arrangement Mr, Bryant received one-quar- 
 ter interest, and five hundred dollars salary, but with 
 divided editorial control; and in those dark days of Ameri- 
 can literature there was little hope of success. Again we 
 may read Bryant's mood in "The Journey of Life." ^ 
 He renewed his license to practise in New York, and was 
 for some time associated with Mr. Henry Sedgwick, but 
 did not appear in any of the courts. 
 
 During the summer of 1826, when his affairs seemed at 
 their lowest ebb, he was asked to act as temporary assist- 
 ant editor of the New York Evening Post, one of the 
 oldest journals of the city, the profits of which "were 
 1 p. 187. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xlv 
 
 estimated at about thirty thousand dollars a year." "This 
 is much better than poetry and magazines," wrote Bryant 
 to his wife. 
 
 Before the Review came to grief Bryant contributed to 
 it " The Damsel of Peru," " The African Chief," " Spring 
 in Town," "The Gladness of Nature," "The Greek 
 Partisan," "The Two Graves," and "The Conjunction of 
 Jupiter and Venus," besides a number of insignificant 
 prose pieces. 
 
 Already, it may be remarked, the inspiration which 
 seemed to flow through his earlier verse was beginning to 
 wane, Bryant's poetry was like a well of natural gas, — 
 when first opened it flows with the greatest pressure. 
 Most of his best poems were written before he was forty. 
 
 After the death of the Reviezv he joined with Verplanck 
 and Sands in editing the annual known as The Talis- 
 man^ and during three years contributed to it about a 
 score of poems, some of which had already appeared in 
 the Reviezv, and about a dozen pieces in prose. Sands 
 lived in Hoboken, and the trio of editors made the hos- 
 pitable house their headquarters, and had a holiday-time of 
 it in arranging plans for their pet work. A few years later 
 they published the principal contents of the three volumes 
 as Miscellanies, with more popularity and profit, 
 
 Bryant's connection with the Evening Post began dur- 
 ing Jackson's stormy administration; and the President 
 found the paper his strongest supporter. Godwin says, 
 " It caught a good deal of its hero's courage and energy, 
 and could be, in spite of its habitual decorum, exasperating 
 and fiery." 
 
 Bryant had naturally a quick temper, and, though he 
 generally kept control of it, he once met a political adver- 
 sary in the street, and gave him a thrashing. It was the 
 
xlvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 only time in fifty years' experience that he forgot himself; 
 and he never ceased to regret that lapse from dignity. 
 
 By February, 1829, he was allowed a small interest in 
 the Post, and five months later was promoted to be 
 editor-in-chief, — a position which he held for half a cen- 
 tury. Henry Sedgwick loaned him two thousand dollars, 
 and he acquired half-interest in the paper, which ulti- 
 mately brought him to wealth. How absorbing his jour- 
 nalistic duties were may be judged from the fact that he 
 wrote only thirty lines in 1830, only sixty in 1 83 1, two 
 hundred and twenty-two in 1832, none in 1833, and only 
 an average of a hundred lines a year in the first ten years 
 of his editorship. 
 
 In 1 83 1 he brought out a volume of his poems. It was 
 republished in London through the good offices of Wash- 
 ington Irving. In 1832 he went to Illinois to visit his 
 brothers, who, on the death of their mother, had emigrated 
 to the West. During this visit he wrote "The Prairies." 1 
 
 A journey ^beyond the Alleghanies in those days was an 
 event, and Bryant enjoyed it so much that henceforward 
 his chief recreation was travel. In 1834 he went to 
 Europe with his family. He had applied for the honorary 
 office of bearer of despatches, which would have given 
 him a certain freedom of entrance and other facilities, 
 but the place, though promised, was not granted. This 
 was the first and only time that he ever asked for office. 
 He spent nearly two years abroad, and chronicled his im- 
 pressions in letters and in his *' Sketches of Travel." 
 His abrupt departure from the charms of Heidelberg, 
 where Longfellow had just joined his circle, was caused by 
 news of the serious illness of his colleague, William Leg- 
 gett, in whose hands the Post had been left. He left his 
 
 » p. 29. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xlvii 
 
 family and sailed from Havre. The voyage, by packet, 
 lasted nearly two months, and was so rough that Bryant 
 was ill nearly all the time. 
 
 On his return, in March, 1836, Washington Irving, 
 Halleck, and upwards of twenty other prominent New 
 York authors and public men, tendered him a compli- 
 mentary dinner. But Bryant, feeling that he "had done 
 nothing to merit such a distinction," declined it. 
 
 In August the Harpers brought out a neat edition of 
 his poems, and paid him six hundred and twenty-five dol- 
 lars for an issue of twenty-five hundred copies. 
 
 At this time he seriously thought of disposing of his 
 newspaper interest, and going out West with a few thou- 
 sand dollars to try his fortunes. He was disgusted with 
 the mercantile spirit of New York. He wrote his brother, 
 "The entire thoughts of the inhabitants seem to be given 
 to the acquisition of wealth: nothing else is talked of. 
 The city is dirtier, and noisier, and more uncomfortable 
 than it ever was before. I have had my fill of a town 
 life, and begin to wish to pass a little time in the country. 
 I have been employed long enough with the management 
 of a daily newspaper, and desire leisure for literary occu- 
 pations that I love better." 
 
 At this time says his son-in-law, who then made his 
 acquaintance: "He was of middle age and medium 
 height, spare in figure, with a clean-shaven face, un- 
 usually large head, bright eyes, and a wearied, severe, 
 almost saturnine expression of countenance." But Mr. 
 Godwin was attracted by his " exceeding gentleness of 
 manner," the rare sweetness of his voice, and the extraor- 
 dinary purity of his English. He seemed at first to have 
 no fun in him, but " when a lively turn was given to some 
 remark, the upper part of his face, particularly the eyes, 
 
xlviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 gleamed with a singular radiance, and a short, quick, 
 staccato, but hearty laugh acknowledged the humorous 
 perception. It was scarcely acknowledged, however, 
 before the face settled down again into its habitual stern- 
 ness." 
 
 This stern, apparently unsympathetic, recluse found him- 
 self bound by fate to his newspaper. Often impelled by 
 duty to take sides with unpopular men and measures, it 
 was not strange that at first the Post sunk to less than a 
 paying property, and had an up-hill road. The average 
 yearly net earnings of it prior to 1849 were about ten thou- 
 sand dollars, of which his share was forty per cent. In 
 1850 it brought in sixteen thousand dollars. Ten years 
 later it was paying seventy thousand dollars. It was sold 
 shortly after Mr. Bryant's death for nine hundred and 
 sixty thousand dollars. 
 
 It must have been a satisfaction to him to feel that, 
 owing largely to his zeal, the public were educated up to 
 see the immorality of duelling, the absurdity of excessive 
 tariffs, the wrong of banking monopolies, and the oppres- 
 sion of the prevailing inspection laws; the wickedness 
 and inexpediency of negro slavery, and to acknowledge 
 the rights of working-men to form trade unions, and mul- 
 titudes of other "doctrines " which had to fight for rec- 
 ognition. To him New York largely owes its Central 
 Park, the formation of which he vigorously advocated for 
 years. 
 
 It is not the province of this sketch to follow Bryant's 
 editorial career, important though it was. It lasted for 
 more than half a century, and covered a period of vast 
 interest. It was amazing that Bryant was enabled, with 
 his peculiar mental organization, with his dislike of pub- 
 licity, to continue in the fore front of such tremendous 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xlix 
 
 conflicts, to preserve always such unbending dignity, and 
 to lead the public to higher thinking on so many weighty 
 subjects, and at the same time to keep a hold on the con- 
 templative life. 
 
 This he was enabled to do by the twofold nature of 
 man. At his editorial desk he was the politician, parti- 
 san. But he found a home and retreat at Roslyn on Long 
 Island, — "a nook such as a poet might well choose, both 
 for its shady seclusion and its beautiful prospects, embow- 
 ered in woods that covered a row of gentle hills, and 
 catching glimpses of a vast expanse of water enlivened in 
 the distance by the sails of a metropolitan commerce." 
 It was an old Quaker mansion, " containing many spacious 
 rooms, surrounded by shrubberies and grand trees, and 
 communicating by a shelving lawn with one of the pret- 
 tiest of small fresh- water lakes." 
 
 Here, from 1843 till the end of his life, except when he 
 was travelling, he spent two or three days of every week, 
 " keeping his friendships in repair," cultivating his love 
 for flowers and gardening, and often entertaining dis- 
 tinguished strangers. In 1865 he also bought the home- 
 stead and farm at Cummington, and there usually spent 
 several weeks in the summer. 
 
 In 1842 Bryant published "The Fountain and Other 
 Poems," containing what he had written since his return 
 from Europe: "The Living Lost," " Cat erskill Falls," 
 " The Strange Lady," " Earth's Children cleave to Earth," 
 " The Hunter's Vision," " A Presentiment," " The Child's 
 Funeral," "The Battlefield," "The Future Life," "The 
 Death of Schiller," "The Fountain," " The Winds," 
 "" The Old Man's Counsel," " An Evening Revery," " The 
 Painted Cup," "A Dream," "The Antiquity of Free- 
 dom," " The Maiden's Sorrow," " The Return of Youth," 
 
1 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 and "A Hymn of the Sea." They were issued by Put- 
 nam & Wiley. The Harper volume in the mean time had 
 gone through five editions. 
 
 Just before he bought his Roslyn estate he travelled 
 through the South and had a delightful reception every- 
 where. He spent two or three weeks of that summer of 
 1843 on the borders of Lake Champlain. In 1845 he 
 made his second journey to Europe, spending two months 
 in England and three on the Continent. Everywhere he 
 met the most famous men of the day, and was lionized by 
 them. Particularly did he enjoy a visit to Wordsworth, 
 though he was not impressed favorably by the man. 
 
 On his return he superintended a new and complete 
 edition of his works, which was published in December, 
 1846. Among the new poems which it contained were 
 " The Waning Moon," " The Stream of Life," and " The 
 Unknown Way," which reflect the depression and anxiety 
 of those days. 
 
 In May, 1847, Bryant's mother died in Illinois. In a 
 poem beginning, 
 
 " The May sun sheds an amber light," 
 
 he refers to her as " The gentle and the good, who once 
 cropt the white blossoms of the spring with a fairer hand, 
 and taught him to listen to the song of birds in a voice 
 far sweeter than their own." 
 
 "That music of the early year 
 
 Brings tears of anguish to my eyes. 
 My heart aches when the flowers appear, 
 For then I think of her, who lies 
 Within her grave, 
 Low in her grave." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. li 
 
 In 1849 Bryant visited Cuba, stopping at Florida on his 
 way, and had hardly reached home, when, still under the 
 impulse of travel, he started for Europe for the third time. 
 He was back in New York in December and, at the 
 instance of G. P. Putnam, soon published a little volume 
 entitled, "Letters of a Traveller," containing selections 
 from his contributions to the Post during his various 
 journeys. 
 
 Two years later he made a still longer journey, visiting 
 not only the Continent, but even the Nile and the far East. 
 The results of this journey are embodied in his " Letters 
 from the East," published in 1869. 
 
 On his return he took an active part in the organization 
 of the Republican party. He sometimes even contributed 
 satirical verses to the Post^ as, for instance, in the follow- 
 ing doggerel, which commemorates the failure of Preston 
 Brooks to meet Anson Burlingame in Canada for a duel, 
 shortly after the dastardly assault on Charles Sumner : — 
 
 BROOKS'S CANADA SONG. 
 
 *'To Canada, Brooks was asked to go 
 To waste of powder a pound or so; 
 He sighed as he answered, No, no, no; 
 They might take my life on the way, you know, 
 For I am afraid, afraid, afraid. 
 Bully Brooks is afraid. 
 
 Those Jersey railroads I can't abide, 
 'T is a dangerous thing in the trains to ride. 
 Each brakeman carries a knife by his side; 
 They 'd cut my throat, and they 'd cut it wide, 
 And I am afraid, afraid, afraid. 
 Bully Brooks is afraid. 
 
lii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 There are savages haunting New York Bay 
 To murder strangers that pass that way; 
 The Quaker Garrison keeps them in pay, 
 And they kill, at least, a score a day, 
 And I am afraid, afraid, afraid. 
 Bully Brooks is afraid. 
 
 Beyond New York in every car 
 They keep a supply of feathers and tar; 
 They daub it on with an iron bar; 
 And I should be smothered ere I got far, 
 And I am afraid, afraid, afraid. 
 Bully Brooks is afraid. 
 
 Those dreadful Yankees talk through the nose; 
 The sound is terrible, goodness knows; 
 And when I hear it a shiver goes 
 From the crown of my head to the tips of my toes, 
 For I am afraid, afraid, afraid. 
 Bully Brooks is afraid. 
 
 So, dearest Mr. Burlingame, 
 I '11 stay at home if 't is all the same; 
 And I '11 tell the world 't was a burning shame 
 That we did not fight, and you 're to blame. 
 For I'm afraid, afraid, afraid. 
 Bully Brooks is afraid. 
 
 Bryant was not generally a humorist, but he occasionally 
 showed appreciation of fun. As examples of his humor- 
 ous verse, we may mention his address to the mosquito, ^ and 
 quote the following poetical letter, inviting Dr. Dewey to 
 visit Roslyn in October, 1863, before the winter sets in, 
 and the days arrived when, — 
 
 ^ p. 137- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Im 
 
 " The season wears an aspect glum and glummer, 
 The icy north wind an unwelcome comer, 
 Frighting from garden-walks each pretty hummer. 
 Whose murmuring music lulled the noons of summer; 
 Roars in the woods with grummer voice and grummer, 
 And thunders in the forest like a drummer. 
 Dumb are the birds — they could not well be dumber; 
 The winter cold, life's pitiless benumber, 
 Bursts water-pipes, and makes us call the plumber. 
 Now, by the fireside toils the patient thumber 
 Of ancient books, and no less patient summer 
 Of long accounts, while topers fill the rummer. 
 The maiden thinks what furs will best become her, 
 And on the stage-boards shouts the gibing mummer. 
 Shut in by storms, the dull piano-strummer * 
 Murders old times. There's nothing wearisomer ! " 
 
 In 1857 Bryant went to Europe for the fifth time, not 
 now for pleasure, but to benefit Mrs. Bryant's health. At 
 Naples she was laid up four months, and during that pain- 
 ful period he wrote his " River by Night," and " The Sick- 
 bed"; also, the "Day Dream." When his wife was 
 recovered he composed " The Life That Is." At Rome 
 he met many famous artists, and had delightful compan- 
 ionship with Hawthorne, Story, and the Brownings. 
 
 The outbreak of the civil war inspired Bryant to the 
 composition of two stirring lyrics: "Not Yet," addressed 
 to those in Europe who would have been glad to see the 
 Republic disrupted and Democracy overthrown. The 
 other was entitled " Our Country's Call," which "helped," 
 says Godwin, "to fill the ranks of the army, and to in- 
 spire them with fortitude, trust, and endurance." 
 
 While engaged so actively with his pen in defence of 
 
liv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 the Union, and sending out trumpet-calls of warning 
 against " the greenback craze " and other dangers, he 
 found time to write "Sella" and "The Little People of 
 the Snow," which, says Godwin, " entice us wholly from 
 the actual and the present into other worlds, which the 
 water-nymphs and snow-fays inhabit, and which dazzle 
 the fancy by their strange splendors, and awaken the emo- 
 tions to weird and unearthly sympathies." 
 
 Before the war was over he had begun his masterly 
 blank-verse translation of Homer, parts of which he in- 
 corporated in a new volume of poems published in 1863. 
 How he yearned for peace may be seen in his " Return of 
 the Birds " and "Autumn Walk," but he utterly opposed 
 it unless by absolute victory. The new volume, entitled 
 "Thirty, Poems," contained " The Rain Dream," "A 
 Day Dream," "The Constellations," and "The Future 
 Life," regarded as among his best work; and it was re- 
 ceived with general favor. 
 
 He was now seventy years old; and he began to " pay 
 off," as he expressed it, "by anticipation," various lega- 
 cies to his relatives and friends. No one knows how far 
 he carried this quiet generosity. His birthday was cele- 
 brated by a notable meeting at the Century Club, when 
 poems and addresses were presented by the foremost in 
 the land. 
 
 Lowell's fine poem said, — 
 
 " The voices of the hills did his obey, 
 
 The torrents flashed and trembled in his song; 
 
 He brought our native fields from far away. 
 Or set us mid the innumerable throng 
 
 Of dateless woods, or where we heard the calm 
 Old homestead's evening's psalm," 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Iv 
 
 and showed how "he sang of faith in things unseen," 
 and how " his voice rammed home the cannon; " how 
 
 " Pride, honor, country, throbbed through all his strain," 
 and ended, — 
 
 " And on our futile laurels he looks down, 
 Himself our bravest crown." 
 
 When the war was over, and emancipation was finally 
 decided, Bryant wrote his "Death of Slavery," which 
 has been called a national Hymn of Thanksgiving. 
 
 In 1866 Bryant was overwhelmed by the death of his 
 wife. In order to escape the desolation of his home he 
 went abroad, and, in order to occupy his mind, he devoted 
 his leisure to completing his translation of Homer. He 
 managed to render about forty lines of Greek into Eng- 
 lish each day. The whole was completed in December, 
 1871, having occupied him for six years. The copyrights 
 from this up to 1888 amounted to nearly twenty thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 During the intervals of his work on this translation he 
 also composed a number of beautiful hymns, and the 
 pieces entitled "A Brighter Day," " Among the Trees," 
 and " May Evening." 
 
 Soon after his " Homer " was published, Bryant made 
 a journey to the Bahamas, Cuba, and Mexico, everywhere 
 receiving distinguished attentions. 
 
 On his return he made arrangements to present the 
 inhabitants of Cummington with a fine library. He had a 
 handsome structure built, and furnished it with over six 
 thousand books, It was situated in a lot of land contain- 
 ing eleven acres — a noble memorial of Cummington's 
 famous son. He gave a similar institution to Roslyn. 
 
Ivi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Bryant was frequently in request to deliver addresses and 
 speeches. Thus in two years, 1871 and 1872, he made 
 more than a dozen in behalf of the Home for Incurables, 
 on municipal reform, at the opening of the new Princeton 
 Library, at the unveiling of the Shakspeare monument in 
 Central Park, and elsewhere. But when he was invited to 
 lecture in Boston he declined, alleging that while the 
 people of New York were accustomed to his defects as a 
 speaker and bore with him, he could not expect the same 
 indulgence from Boston. He declined also to write poems 
 on Bunker Hill, or for the celebration of Whittier's birth- 
 day, or for the alumni of Williams College, saying, "I 
 am ever ill at occasional verses. Such as it is, my vein is 
 not of that sort." 
 
 In the winter of 1872-73 he published an edition of his 
 orations and speeches, and in the following spring he 
 made a journey to the South, where he was most cordially 
 received. About the same time he was elected an honor- 
 ary member of the Russian Academy of St. Petersburg. 
 
 His eightieth birthday was commemorated by the pres- 
 entation of the famous silver vase which was Greek in 
 form, typifying Bryant's interest in Greek literature, while 
 American flowers twined themselves about it; the other 
 decorations called to mind Bryant's most popular poems. 
 The work was not finished in time, and was not presented 
 until the June of the Centennial year. His birthday was 
 celebrated all over the country, and when S. J. Tilden was 
 elected Governor of New York, Bryant, who visited him 
 in Albany, was tendered a reception by the both branches 
 of the Legislature, as to the most distinguished citizen of 
 the country. 
 
 Even in what he called the December of his life, he 
 still kept up his interest in literary matters. He was an 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Ivii 
 
 indefatigable reader. He undertook the responsibility for 
 Mr. Sidney Howard Gay's " Popular History of the United 
 States.'' He supervised the revision of his "Library 
 of Poetry and Song," and undertook the editorship of a 
 new edition of Shakspeare, in which he had the assistance 
 of Mr. E. A. Duyckinck. He composed a hymn for the 
 Centennial Exhibition, wrote "Christmas in 1875," which 
 has been called "a fine Miltonic inspiration;" also the 
 autobiographic lines entitled, "A Lifetime," and was 
 engaged on his last great poem, "The Flood of Years." 
 
 In 1878, when he had reached the age of eighty-four, 
 he still kept up his physical and intellectual activity. He 
 walked daily to and from his office, a distance of nearly 
 three miles; he spoke at various public meetings, and kept 
 up a vigorous correspondence with R. H. Dana, and other 
 friends. His marvellous memory was still unimpaired. 
 He might have been called a walking dictionary of quota- 
 tions. He could recall every line of his own poetry, and 
 he knew by heart hundreds of lines of English and foreign 
 masterpieces. His last letter was in careful criticism of a 
 poem submitted to him by R. H. Stoddard. 
 
 He had accepted an invitation to deliver an oration at 
 the unveiling of the statue to Mazzini, the Italian patriot, 
 on May 29, 1878. It was against his better judgment, 
 but though he began rather more feebly than usual, not 
 feeling very well, he soon warmed up to it, and quite sur- 
 passed himself. 
 
 At the close of the exercises, instead of going directly to 
 his own home, he accepted the invitation of General James 
 Grant Wilson to walk over to his house, a considerable 
 distance across the Park. On entering he fell backward 
 and struck on his head, causing concussion of the brain, 
 from the effects of which he died two weeks later, on the 
 morning of June 12, 1878. He was buried at Roslyn. 
 
Iviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Such was the prosperous and noble career of an Ameri- 
 can, who, in a certain way, might be regarded as a typical 
 Roman citizen. His unassailable dignity and majestic 
 sternness would have well befitted a Roman senator. 
 While it would be too extravagant to claim that he lived 
 a faultless life, it is not too much to say that his personal 
 character was beyond reproach. If anything, it seemed 
 almost too lofty and unapproachable; if he failed, it was 
 in his lack of general sympathies. Yet few men were 
 ever more admired, reverenced, and honored. Nearly 
 every learned society in the world felt proud to inscribe 
 his name on their rolls. He was a member of over a hun- 
 dred college societies. 
 
 As a poet he stands somewhat alone and isolated. There 
 is a certain cold and classic formality about the most of 
 his work, which invites admiration rather than love. But 
 this old-fashioned dignity makes his poems sure of immor- 
 tality, for, like the Greek statues of the gods, they are 
 instinct with genuine fervor and fine feeling. 
 
 Nathan Haskell Dole. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Ages i 
 
 To THE Past 14 
 
 Thanatopsis 16 
 
 The Lapse of Time 19 
 
 To THE Evening Wind 21 
 
 Forest Hymn 23 
 
 The Old Man's Funeral 27 
 
 The Rivulet 28 
 
 The Prairies 31 
 
 Earth 36 
 
 To THE Apennines 39 
 
 The Knight's Epitaph 41 
 
 Seventy-Six 43 
 
 The Living Lost 44 
 
 The Strange Lady 46 
 
 The Hunter's Vision 49 
 
 Catterskill Falls 51 
 
 The Hunter of the Prairies 55 
 
 The Damsel of Peru 57 
 
 A Song of Pitcairn's Island 59 
 
 RlZPAH 61 
 
 The Indian Girl's Lament 64 
 
 The Arctic Lovek 66 
 
 The Massacre at Scio 67 
 
 lix 
 
Ix CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Version of a Fragment of Simonides ... 68 
 
 The Greek Partisan 69 
 
 Romero 70 
 
 Monument Mountain 73 
 
 The Murdered Traveller 78 
 
 Song of the Greek Amazon 79 
 
 The African Chief 81 
 
 Song — "Soon as the Glazed and Gleaming 
 
 Snow " 83 
 
 An Indian Story ^ 84 
 
 The Hunter's Serenade 87 
 
 Song of Marion's Men 89 
 
 Song — "Dost Thou Idly Ask to Hear" . . 91 
 
 Love and Folly 93 
 
 Fatima and Raduan 94 
 
 The Death of Aliatar 96 
 
 The Alcayde of Molina 99 
 
 From the Spanish of Villegas loi 
 
 The Life of the Blessed 102 
 
 Mary Magdalen 103 
 
 The Siesta .104 
 
 From the Spanish of Pedro de Castro y 
 
 Anaya 105 
 
 The Count of Greiers — From the German, 106 
 
 Song — From the Spanish of Iglesias . . . 109 
 
 Sonnet — From the Portuguese of Semedo . no 
 
 Love in the Age of Chivalry no 
 
 The Love of God in 
 
 The Hurricane 113 
 
 March 114 
 
 Spring in Town 116 
 
 Summer Wind nS 
 
 Autumn Woods 120 
 
CONTENTS. Ixi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Winter Piece 122 
 
 "Oh Fairest of the Rural Maids!". . . . 126 
 
 The Disinterred Warrior 126 
 
 The Greek Boy 128 
 
 "Upon the Mountain's Distant Head" . . 129 
 
 Sonnet — William Tell 130 
 
 To THE River Arve 130 
 
 Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood . 132 
 " When the Firmament Quivers with Day- 
 light's Young Beam" 133 
 
 A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson . . . 134 
 
 The West Wind 135 
 
 To a Mosquito 137 
 
 "I Broke the Spell that Held me Long" . 140 
 
 The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus . . 140 
 
 June 144 
 
 The Two Graves 146 
 
 The New Moon 148 
 
 The Gladness of Nature 150 
 
 To THE Fringed Gentian 151 
 
 " Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower " 152 
 
 Sonnet — Midsummer 152 
 
 Sonnet — October 153 
 
 Sonnet — November 154 
 
 A Meditation on Rhode Island Coal . . . 154 
 
 An Indian at the Burial-place of His Fathers, 158 
 Sonnet — To Cole, the Painter, Departing 
 
 for Europe 161 
 
 Green River 161 
 
 To A Cloud 164 
 
 After a Tempest 165 
 
 The Burial-Place — A Fragment 167 
 
Ixii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Yellow Violet 169 
 
 "I Cannot Forget with what Fervid De- 
 votion " 1 70 
 
 Lines on Revisiting the Country 172 
 
 Sonnet — Mutation 173 
 
 Hymn to the North Star 174 
 
 The Twenty-Second of December . . . . 176 
 
 Ode for an Agricultural Celebration. . . 176 
 
 A Walk at Sunset 177 
 
 Hymn of the Waldenses 180 
 
 Song of the Stars .......... 181 
 
 Hymn of the City 183 
 
 "No Man Knoweth his Sepulchre" . . . 184 
 
 "Blessed are They that Mourn" .... 185 
 
 The Skies 186 
 
 The Journey of Life 187 
 
 Sonnet — To 188 
 
 The Death of the Flowers 189 
 
 Hymn to Death 191 
 
 "Earth's Children cleave to Earth" . . 197 
 
 To A Waterfowl 197 
 
 The Battle Field 199 
 
 The Child's Funeral 200 
 
 The Fountain 202 
 
 The Winds ,207 
 
 The Green Mountain Boys ....... 210 
 
 The Death of Schiller 211 
 
 Life 212 
 
 A Presentiment 214 
 
 The Future Life 215 
 
 The Old Man's Counsel 216 
 
 A Serenade — From the Spanish 220 
 
CONTENTS. Ixiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To THE Memory of William Leggett . . 222 
 
 An Evening Revery 223 
 
 The Painted Cup. . 225 
 
 A Dream 226 
 
 The Antiquity of Freedom 228 
 
 Notes 232 
 
BRYANTS POEMS. 
 
 THE AGES. 
 
 I. 
 
 When to the common rest that crowns our days, 
 Called in the noon of life, the good man goes. 
 Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays 
 His silver temples in their last repose ; 
 When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows. 
 And blights the fairest ; when our bitterest tears 
 Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, 
 We think on what they were, with many fears 
 Lest goodness die with them, and leave the 
 coming years. 
 
 II. 
 
 And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by — 
 When lived the honored sage whose death we wept, 
 And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, 
 And beat in many a heart that long has slept — 
 Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped — 
 Are holy ; and high-dreaming bards have told 
 Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was 
 
 kept, 
 Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed cold — 
 Those pure and happy times — the golden days 
 of old. 
 
 I 
 
r BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Peace to the just man's memory, — let it grow 
 Greener with years, and blossom through the flight 
 Of ages ; let the mimic canvas show 
 His calm benevolent features ; let the light 
 Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight 
 Of all but heaven, and, in the book of fame. 
 The glorious record of his virtues write. 
 And hold it up to men, and bid them claim 
 A palm like his, and catch from him the 
 hallowed flame. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But oh, despair not of their fate who rise 
 To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw ; 
 Lo ! the same shaft by which the righteous dies. 
 Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy's 
 
 law. 
 And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe 
 Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth, 
 Such as the sternest age of virtue saw, 
 Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth 
 From the low modest shade, to light and bless 
 the earth. 
 
 Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march, 
 Faltered with age at last ? does the bright sun 
 Grow dim in heaven ? or, in their far blue arch, 
 Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, 
 Less brightly ? when the dew-lipped Spring 
 comes on. 
 
THE AGES. 3 
 
 Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky 
 With flowers less fair than when her reign begun ? 
 Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny 
 The plenty that once swelled beneath his sober 
 eye? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth 
 In her fair page ; see, every season brings 
 New change, to her, of everlasting youth ; 
 Still the green soil, with joyous living things, 
 Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, 
 And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep 
 Of ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings 
 The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep 
 In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the 
 deep. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Will then the merciful One, who stamped our race 
 With his own image, and who gave them sway 
 O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face. 
 Now that our flourishing nations far away 
 Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks 
 
 the day, 
 Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed 
 His latest offspring ? will he quench the ray 
 Infused by his own forming smile at first, 
 And leave a work so fair all blighted and 
 
 accursed ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh, no ! a thousand cheerful omens give 
 Hope of yet happier days whose dawn is nigh. 
 
{ BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 He who has tamed the elements, shall not live 
 The slave of his own passions ; he whose eye 
 Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky, 
 And in the abyss of brightness dares to span 
 The sun's broad circle, rising yet more high, 
 In God's magnificent works his will shall scan — 
 And love and peace shall make their paradise 
 with man. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sit at the feet of History — through the night 
 Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace. 
 And show the earlier ages, where her sight 
 Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face ; — 
 When, from the genial cradle of our race. 
 Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot 
 To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwell- 
 ing-place. 
 Or freshening rivers ran ; and there forgot 
 The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that 
 heard them not. 
 
 X. 
 
 Then waited not the murderer for the night, 
 But smote his brother down in the bright day. 
 And he who felt the wrong, and had the might, 
 His own avenger, girt himself to slay ; 
 Beside the path the unburied carcass lay ; 
 The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen, 
 Fled, while the robber swept his flock away, 
 And slew his babes. The sick, untended then, 
 Languished in the damp shade, and died afar 
 from men. 
 
THE AGES. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But misery brought in love — in passion's strife 
 Man gave his heart to mercy pleading long. 
 And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life ; 
 The weak, against the sons of spoil and wrong. 
 Banded, and watched their hamlets, and grew 
 
 strong. 
 States rose, and, in the shadow of their might, 
 The timid rested. To the reverent throng. 
 Grave and time-wrinkled men, with locks all white, 
 Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught 
 
 the way of right ; 
 
 XII. 
 
 Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed 
 On men the yoke that man should never bear, 
 And drove them forth to battle : Lo ! unveiled 
 The scene of those stern ages ! What is there? 
 A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air 
 Moans with the crimson surges that entomb 
 Cities and bannered armies ; forms that wear 
 The kingly circlet, rise, amid the gloom. 
 O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed 
 in its womb. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Those ages have no memory — but they left 
 A record in the desert — columns strown 
 On the waste sands, and statues fall'n and cleft. 
 Heaped like a host in battle overthrown ; 
 Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone 
 
) BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Were hewn into a city ; streets that spread 
 In the dark earth, where never breath has blown 
 Of heaven^'s sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread 
 The long and perilous ways — the Cities of the 
 Dead: 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled — 
 They perished — but the eternal tombs remain — 
 And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, 
 Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane ; — 
 Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain 
 The everlasting arches, dark and wide. 
 Like the night heaven when clouds are black with 
 
 rain . 
 But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, 
 All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign 
 O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke ; 
 She left the down-trod nations in disdain. 
 And flew to Greece, when Liberty awoke, 
 New-born, amid those beautiful vales, and broke 
 Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands. 
 As the rock shivers in the thunder-stroke. 
 And lo ! in full-grown strength, an empire stands 
 Of leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Oh, Greece, thy flourishing cities were a spoil 
 Unto each other ; thy hard hand oppressed 
 
THE AGES. ) 
 
 And crushed the helpless ; thou didst make thy 
 
 soil 
 Drunk with the blood of those that loved thee best ; 
 And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural breast. 
 Thy just and brave to die in distant climes ; 
 Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sighed for rest 
 From thine abominations ; after times 
 That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at 
 
 thy crimes. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Yet there was that within thee which has saved 
 Thy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name ; 
 The story of thy better deeds, engraved 
 On fame's unmouldering pillar, puts to shame 
 Our chiller virtue ; the high art to tame 
 The whirlwind of the passions was thine own ; 
 And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came, 
 Far over many a land and age has shone. 
 And mingles with the light that beams from 
 God's own throne. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And Rome — thy sterner, younger sister, she 
 Who awed the world with her imperial frown — ' 
 Rome drew the spirit of her race from thee, — 
 The rival of thy shame and thy renown. 
 Yet her degenerate children sold the crown 
 Of earth's wide kingdoms to a line of slaves ; 
 Guilt reigned, and woe with guilt, and plagues came 
 down. 
 
8 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Till the north broke its floodgates, and the waves 
 Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o'er 
 their graves. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Vainly that ray of brightness from above. 
 That shone around the Galilean lake, 
 The light of hope, the leading star of love, 
 Struggled, the darkness of that day to break ; 
 Even its own faithless guardians strove to slake, 
 In fogs of earth, the pure immortal flame ; 
 And priestly hands, for Jesus' blessed sake. 
 Were red with blood, and charity became. 
 In that stern war of forms, a mockery and a name. 
 
 XX. 
 
 They triumphed, and less bloody rites were kept 
 Within the quiet of the convent cell ; 
 The well-fed inmates pattered prayer, and slept. 
 And sinned, and liked their easy penance well. 
 Where pleasant was the spot for men to dwell. 
 Amid its fair broad lands the abbey lay. 
 Sheltering dark orgies that were shame to tell, 
 And cowled and barefoot beggars swarmed the 
 
 way. 
 All in their convent weeds, of black, and white, 
 
 and gray. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Oh, sweetly the returning muses' strain 
 Swelled over that famed stream, whose gentle tide 
 In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain, 
 Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased to chide, 
 
THE AGES. 9 
 
 And all the new-leaved woods, resounding wide, 
 Send out wild hymns upon the scented air. 
 Lo ! to the smiling Arno's classic side 
 The emulous nations of the west repair, 
 And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh 
 spirit there. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Still, Heaven deferred the hour ordained to rend 
 From saintly rottenness the sacred stole ; 
 And cowl and worshipped shrine could still defend 
 The wretch with felon stains upon his soul ; 
 And crimes were set to sale, and hard his dole 
 Who could not bribe a passage to the skies ; 
 And vice, beneath the mitre's kind control, 
 Sinned gayly on, and grew to giant size. 
 Shielded by priestly power, and watched by 
 priestly eyes. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 At last the earthquake came — the shock, that hurled 
 To dust, in many fragments dashed and strown. 
 The throne, whose roots were in another world. 
 And whose far-stretching shadow awed our own. 
 From many a proud monastic pile, o'erthrown. 
 Fear-struck, the hooded inmates rushed and fled ; 
 The web, that for a thousand years had grown 
 O'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dread 
 Crumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen 
 thread. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The spirit of that day is still awake, 
 
 And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again ; 
 
lO BRYANT'S POEMS 
 
 But through the idle mesh of power shall break, 
 Like billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain ; 
 Till men are filled with him, and feel how vain, 
 Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands. 
 Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain 
 The smile of heaven ; — till a new age expands 
 Its white and holy wings above the peaceful lands. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 For look again on the past years ; — behold. 
 Flown, like the nightmare's hideous shapes, away, 
 Full many a horrible worship, that, of old. 
 Held, o'er the shuddering realms, unquestioned 
 
 sway : 
 See crimes that feared not once the eye of day. 
 Rooted from men, without a name or place : 
 See nations blotted out from earth, to pay 
 The forfeit of deep guilt ; — with glad embrace 
 The fair disburdened lands welcome a nobler race. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Thus error's monstrous shapes from earth are 
 
 driven, 
 They fade, they fly — but truth survives their flight ; 
 Earth has no shades to quench that beam of 
 
 heaven ; 
 Each ray, that shone, in early time, to light 
 The faltering footsteps in the path of right. 
 Each gleam of clearer brightness, shed to aid 
 In man's maturer day his bolder sight, 
 All blended, like the rainbow's radiant braid, 
 Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that 
 
 cannot fade. 
 
THE AGES. II 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Late, from this western shore, that morning chased 
 The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud 
 O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, 
 Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud 
 Sky-mingling mountains that overlook the cloud. 
 Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness 
 
 rear, 
 Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were 
 
 loud 
 Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer 
 Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf 
 
 yelled near. 
 
 XXVIII : 
 
 And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay 
 Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim, 
 And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay 
 Young group of grassy islands born of him, 
 And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim. 
 Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring 
 The commerce of the world ; — with tawny limb, 
 And belt and beads in sunlight glistening, 
 The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the 
 wing. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Then, all this youthful paradise around, 
 And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay 
 Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned 
 O'er mount and vale, where never summer ray 
 Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way 
 
12 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild ; 
 Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay, 
 Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild. 
 Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake 
 Spread its blue sheet that flashed with many an 
 
 oar. 
 Where the brown otter plunged him from the 
 
 brake, 
 And the deer drank : as the light gale flew o^er, 
 The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore ; 
 And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair, 
 A look of glad and innocent beauty wore. 
 And peace was on the earth and in the air, 
 The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive 
 
 there : 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Not unavenged — the foeman, from the wood, 
 Beheld the deed, and when the midnight shade 
 Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood ; 
 All died — the wailing babe — the shrieking maid — 
 And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade, 
 The roofs went down ; but deep the silence grew. 
 When on the dewy woods the day-beam played ; 
 No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed and blue. 
 And ever, by their lake, lay moored the light canoe. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Look now abroad — another race has filled 
 These populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 
 
THE AGES. 13 
 
 And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled ; 
 The land is full of harvests and green meads ; 
 Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds. 
 Shine, disembowered, and give to sun and breeze 
 Their virgin waters ; the full region leads 
 New colonies forth, that toward the western seas 
 Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, 
 Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place 
 A limit to the giant's unchained strength. 
 Or curb his swiftness in the forward race ? 
 Far, like the comet's way through infinite space, 
 Stretches the long untravelled path of light 
 Into the depths of ages : we may trace. 
 Distant, the brightening glory of its light. 
 Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, 
 
 And writhes in shackles ; strong the arms that 
 
 chain 
 To earth her struggling multitude of states ; 
 She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain 
 Against them, but shake off the vampyre train 
 That batten on her blood, and break their net. 
 Yes, she shall look on brighter. days, and gain 
 The meed of worthier deeds ; the moment set 
 To rescue and raise up, draws near — but is not yet. 
 
14 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall. 
 But with thy children — thy maternal care. 
 Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all — 
 These are thy fetters — seas and stormy air 
 Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, 
 Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well, 
 Thou laugh'st at enemies : who shall then declare 
 The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell 
 How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell? 
 
 TO THE PAST. 
 
 Thou unrelenting Past ! 
 Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain. 
 
 And fetters, sure and fast, 
 Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 
 
 Far in thy realm withdrawn 
 Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, 
 
 And glorious ages gone 
 Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 
 
 Childhood, with all its mirth, 
 Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground, 
 
 And last, Man's Life on earth. 
 Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 
 
TO THE PAST 15 
 
 Thou hast my better years, 
 Thou hast my earlier friends — the good — the kind, 
 
 Yielded to thee with tears — 
 The venerable form — the exalted mind. 
 
 My spirit yearns to bring 
 The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense. 
 
 And struggles hard to wring 
 Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 
 
 In vain — thy gates deny 
 All passage save to those who hence depart ; 
 
 Nor to the streaming eye 
 Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken heart. 
 
 In thy abysses hide 
 Beauty and excellence unknown — to thee 
 
 Earth's wonder and her pride 
 Are gathered, as the waters to the sea ; 
 
 Labors of good to man, 
 Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, — 
 
 Love, that midst grief began, 
 And grew with years, and faltered not in death. 
 
 Full many a mighty name 
 Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered ; 
 
 With thee are silent fame, 
 Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 
 
1 6 . BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Thine for a space are they — 
 Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last ! 
 
 Thy gates shall yet give way, 
 Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past ! 
 
 All that of good and fair 
 Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, 
 
 Shall then come forth, to wear 
 The glory and the beauty of its prime. 
 
 They have not perished — no ! 
 Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, 
 
 Smiles, radiant long ago, 
 And features, the great soul's apparent seat ; 
 
 All shall come back, each tie 
 Of pure affection shall be knit again ; 
 
 Alone shall Evil die. 
 And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign 
 
 And then shall I behold 
 Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, 
 
 And her, who, still and cold, 
 Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young. 
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 To him who in the love of nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language ; for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 
THAN A TOPSIS. 1 7 
 
 And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
 
 Into his darker musings, with a mild 
 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 
 
 Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, — 
 
 Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 
 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,' 
 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 
 To mix forever with the elements, 
 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock 
 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 
 Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish 
 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 
 With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings. 
 
 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good. 
 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 
1 8 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills 
 
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 
 The venerable woods — rivers that move 
 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
 
 That make the meadows green ; and, poured round 
 
 all, 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
 Of morning — and the Barcan desert pierce. 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
 Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there ; 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
 So shalt thou rest — and what if thou withdraw 
 Unheeded by the living — and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall come. 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
 
THE LAPSE OF TIME. 19 
 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
 In the full strength of years, matron, and maid. 
 And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — 
 Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
 By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, that moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave. 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 THE LAPSE OF TIME. 
 
 Lament who will, in fruitless tears, 
 
 The speed with which our moments fly ; 
 
 I sigh not over vanished years. 
 
 But watch the years that hasten by. 
 
 Look, how they come, — a mingled crowd 
 Of bright and dark, but rapid days ; 
 
 Beneath them, like a summer cloud, 
 The wide world changes as I gaze. 
 
 What ! grieve that time has brought so soon 
 
 The sober age of manhood on? 
 As idly might I weep, at noon. 
 
 To see the blush of morning gone. 
 
20 BRYANT'S POEMS, 
 
 Could I give up the hopes that glow 
 
 In prospect, like Elysian isles ; 
 And let the charming future go, 
 
 With all her promises and smiles ? 
 
 The future ! — cruel were the power 
 
 Whose doom would tear thee from my heart. 
 
 Thou sweetener of the present hour ! 
 We cannot — no — we will not part. 
 
 Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight 
 
 That makes the changing seasons gay. 
 
 The grateful speed that brings the night, 
 The swift and glad return of day ; 
 
 The months that touch, with added grace, 
 
 This little prattler at my knee, 
 In whose arch eye and speaking face 
 
 New meaning every hour I see ; 
 
 The years, that o'er each sister land 
 Shall lift the country of my birth 
 
 And nurse her strength, till she shall stand 
 The pride and pattern of the earth ; 
 
 Till younger commonwealths, for aid, 
 Shall cling about her ample robe. 
 
 And from her frown shall shrink afraid 
 The crowned oppressors of the globe. 
 
 True — time will seam and blanch my brow — 
 Well — I shall sit with aged men, 
 
 And my good glass will tell me how 
 A grizzly beard becomes me then. 
 
TO THE EVENING WIND. 21 
 
 And should no foul dishonor lie 
 Upon my head, when I am gray, 
 
 Love yet shall watch my fading eye, 
 And smooth the path of my decay. 
 
 Then, haste thee. Time — ""t is kindness all 
 That speeds thy winged feet so fast ; 
 
 Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, 
 And all thy pains are quickly past. 
 
 Thou fliest and bear'st away our woes, 
 And as thy shadowy train depart, 
 
 The memory of sorrow grows 
 A lighter burden on the heart. 
 
 TO THE EVENING WIND. 
 
 Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
 That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day. 
 
 Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
 Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 
 
 Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
 
 Roughening their crests, and scattering high their 
 spray, 
 
 And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
 
 To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 
 
 Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 
 
 Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 
 And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
 
 Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
 
22 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 
 
 Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. 
 Go forth, into the gathering shade ; go forth, 
 God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 
 
 Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, 
 
 Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 
 
 The wide old wood from his majestic rest. 
 Summoning from the innumerable boughs 
 
 The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast : 
 Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
 
 The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 
 
 And 'twixt the overshadowing branches and the grass. 
 
 The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
 To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 
 
 And dry the moistened curls that overspread 
 
 His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 
 
 And they who stand about the sick man's bed, 
 Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. 
 
 And softly part his curtains to allow 
 
 Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 
 
 Go — but the circle of eternal change. 
 Which is the life of nature, shall restore. 
 
 With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
 Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more ; 
 
 Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange. 
 Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; 
 
 And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
 
 He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 
 
FOREST HYMN. 23 
 
 FOREST HYMN. 
 
 The groves were God's first temples. Ere man 
 learned 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. 
 And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 
 The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
 The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood. 
 Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down 
 And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 Might not resist the. sacred influences. 
 Which, from the stilly twilight of the place. 
 And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
 Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
 All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 
 His spirit with the thought of boundless power 
 And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
 God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
 Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
 That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least. 
 Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
 Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
 Acceptance in His ear. 
 
 Father, thy hand 
 Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
 Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look 
 
 down 
 Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
 
24 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
 
 Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
 
 And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow, 
 
 Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
 
 Among their branches, till, at last, they stood, 
 
 As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
 
 Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
 
 Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 
 
 These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 
 
 Report not. No fantastic carvings show. 
 
 The boast of our vain race to change the form 
 
 Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou filPst 
 
 The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
 
 That run along the summit of these trees 
 
 In music ; — thou art in the cooler breath, 
 
 That from the inmost darkness of the place. 
 
 Comes, scarcely felt ; — the barky trunks, the ground, 
 
 The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 
 
 Here is continual worship ; — nature, here. 
 
 In the tranquillity that thou dost love. 
 
 Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around. 
 
 From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
 
 Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, 
 
 Wells softly forth and visits the strong roots 
 
 Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
 
 Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
 
 Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 
 
 Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace 
 
 Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — - 
 
 By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 
 
 Almost annihilated — not a prince, 
 
 In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 
 
FOREST HYMN. 25 
 
 E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
 
 Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 
 
 Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 
 
 Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
 
 Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, 
 
 With scented breath, and look so like a smile, 
 
 Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 
 
 An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
 
 A visible token of the upholding Love, 
 
 That are the soul of this wide universe. 
 
 My heart is awed within me, when I think 
 Of the great miracle that still goes on. 
 In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
 Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
 Forever. Written on thy works I read 
 The lesson of thy own eternity. 
 Lo ! all grow old and die — but see, again. 
 How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
 Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth 
 In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
 Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
 Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost 
 One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet. 
 After the flight of untold centuries, 
 The freshness of her far beginning lies 
 And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
 Of his arch enemy Death — yea, seats himself 
 Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre, 
 And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
 Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
 From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 
 
26 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 There have been holy men who hid themselves 
 Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
 Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
 The generation born with them, nor seemed 
 Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
 Around them ; — and there have been holy men 
 Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
 But let me often to these solitudes 
 Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
 My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 
 The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
 And tremble and are still. Oh, God ! when thou 
 Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
 The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 
 With all the waters of the firmament, 
 The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods 
 And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
 Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
 Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
 Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight 
 Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
 His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? 
 Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
 Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
 Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
 Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate 
 In these calm shades thy milder majesty. 
 And to the beautiful order of thy works. 
 Learn to conform the order of our Jives. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. 27 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL 
 
 I SAW an aged man upon his bier, 
 
 His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 
 A record of the cares of many a year ; — 
 
 Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 
 And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, 
 And women's tears fell fast, and children wailed 
 aloud. 
 
 Then rose another hoary man and said. 
 In faltering accents, to that weeping train, 
 
 *' Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? 
 Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain. 
 
 Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast. 
 
 Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened 
 mast. 
 
 " Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled. 
 His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky. 
 
 In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled. 
 Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie. 
 
 And leaves the smile of his departure, spread 
 
 O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain 
 head. 
 
 " Why weep ye then for him, who, having won 
 The bound of man's appointed years, at last. 
 
 Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done. 
 Serenely to his final rest has passed ; 
 
 While the soft memory of his virtues, yet, 
 
 Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is 
 set. 
 
28 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 ** His youth was innocent ; his riper age, 
 
 Marked with some act of goodness, every day ; 
 
 And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage, 
 Faded his late declining years away. 
 
 Cheerful he gave his being up, and went 
 
 To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. 
 
 ' ' That life was happy ; every day he gave 
 Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; 
 
 For a sick fancy made him not her slave, 
 To mock him with her phantom miseries. 
 
 No chronic tortures racked his aged limb. 
 
 For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. 
 
 " And I am glad, that he has lived thus long, 
 And glad, that he has gone to his reward ; 
 
 Nor deem, that kindly nature did him wrong, 
 Softly to disengage the vital cord. 
 
 When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye 
 
 Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." 
 
 THE RIVULET. 
 
 This little rill that, from the springs 
 Of yonder grove, its current brings. 
 Plays on the slope awhile, and then 
 Goes prattling into groves again. 
 Oft to its warbling waters drew 
 My little feet, when life was new. 
 When woods in early green were dressed, 
 And from the chambers of the west 
 
THE RIVULET. 29 
 
 The warmer breezes, travelling out, 
 Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
 My truant steps from home would stray. 
 Upon its grassy side to play, 
 List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn. 
 And crop the violet on its brim, 
 With blooming cheek and open brow. 
 As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 
 
 And when the days of boyhood came. 
 And I had grown in love with fame, 
 Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
 My first rude numbers by thy side. 
 Words cannot tell how bright and gay 
 The scenes of life before me lay. 
 Then glorious hopes, that now to speak 
 Would bring the blood into my cheek, 
 Passed o'er me ; and I wrote, on high, 
 A name I deemed should never die. 
 
 Years change thee not. Upon yon hill 
 The tall old maples, verdant still, 
 Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, 
 How swift the years have passed away, 
 Since first, a child, and half afraid, 
 I wandered in the forest shade. 
 Thou, ever joyous rivulet. 
 Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ; 
 And sporting with the sands that pave 
 The windings of thy silver wave, 
 And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
 Thou laughest at the lapse of time. 
 
30 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 The same sweet sounds are in my ear 
 My early childhood loved to hear ; 
 As pure thy limpid waters run. 
 As bright they sparkle to the sun ; 
 As fresh and thick the bending ranks 
 Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; 
 The violet there, in soft May dew, 
 Comes up, as modest and as blue ; 
 As green amid thy current's stress, 
 Floats the scarce-rooted watercress ; 
 And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, 
 Still chirps as merrily as then. 
 
 Thou changest not — but I am changed, 
 Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; 
 And the grave stranger, come to see 
 The play-place of his infancy. 
 Has scarce a single trace of him 
 Who sported once upon thy brim. 
 The visions of my youth are past — 
 Too bright, too beautiful to last. 
 I Ve tried the world — it wears no more 
 The coloring of romance it wore. 
 Yet well has Nature kept the truth 
 She promised to my earliest youth. 
 The radiant beauty, shed abroad 
 On all the glorious works of God, 
 Shows freshly, to my sobered eye. 
 Each charm it wore in days gone by. 
 
 A few brief years shall pass away, 
 And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, 
 
THE PRAIRIES. 31 
 
 Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold 
 My ashes in the embracing mould 
 (If haply the dark will of fate 
 Indulge my life so long a date) , 
 May come for the last time to look 
 Upon my childhood^s favorite brook. 
 Then dimly on my eye shall gleam 
 The sparkle of thy dancing stream ; 
 And faintly on my ear shall fall 
 Thy prattling current's merry call ; 
 Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright 
 As when thou met'st my infant sight. 
 
 And I shall sleep — and on thy side, 
 As ages after ages glide, 
 Children their early sports shall try. 
 And pass to hoary age and die. 
 But thou, unchanged from year to year, 
 Gayly shalt play and glitter here ; 
 Amid young flowers and tender grass 
 Thy endless infancy shalt pass ; 
 And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
 Shalt mock the fading race of men. 
 
 THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 These are the Gardens of the Desert, these 
 The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful. 
 For which the speech of England has no name- 
 The Prairies. I behold them for the first, 
 
32 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
 
 Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they stretch 
 
 In airy undulations, far away. 
 
 As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell. 
 
 Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed. 
 
 And motionless forever. — Motionless ? — 
 
 No — they are all unchained again. The clouds 
 
 Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, 
 
 The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; 
 
 Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 
 
 The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South! 
 
 Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, 
 
 And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high. 
 
 Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not — ye have 
 
 played 
 Among the palms of Mexico and vines 
 Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks 
 That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
 Into the calm Pacific — have ye fanned 
 A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? 
 Man hath no part in all this glorious work : 
 The hand that built the firmament hath heaved 
 And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown 
 
 their slopes 
 With herbage, planted them with island groves. 
 And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor 
 For this magnificent temple of the sky — 
 With flowers whose glory and whose multitude 
 Rival the constellations ! The great heavens 
 Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love, — 
 A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue. 
 Than that which bends above the eastern hills. 
 
THE PRAIRIES. 33 
 
 As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, 
 
 Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides, 
 
 The hollow beating of his footstep seems 
 
 A sacrilegious sound. I think of those 
 
 Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here — 
 
 The dead of other days ? — and did the dust 
 
 Of these fair solitudes once stir with life 
 
 And burn with passion ? Let the mighty mounds 
 
 That overlook the rivers, or that rise 
 
 In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, 
 
 Answer. A race, that long has passed away, 
 
 Built them ; — a disciplined and populous race 
 
 Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the 
 
 Greek 
 Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms 
 Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock 
 The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields 
 Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed. 
 When haply by their stalls the bison lowed. 
 And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. 
 All day this desert murmured with their toils. 
 Till twilight blushed and lovers walked, and wooed 
 In a forgotten language, and old tunes. 
 From instruments of unremembered form. 
 Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came — 
 The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce. 
 And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. 
 The solitude of centuries untold 
 Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie wolf 
 Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den 
 Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground 
 Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone — 
 
34 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 All — save the piles of earth that hold their bones — 
 The platforms where they worshipped unknown 
 
 gods — 
 The barriers which they builded from the soil 
 To keep the foe at bay — till o'er the walls 
 The wild beleaguers broke, and, one by one, 
 The strongholds of the plain were forced and heaped 
 With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood 
 Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres. 
 And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. 
 Haply some solitary fugitive. 
 Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense 
 Of desolation and of fear became 
 Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. 
 Man's better nature triumphed. Kindly words 
 Welcomed and soothed him ; the rude conquerors 
 Seated the captive with their chiefs ; he chose 
 A bride among their maidens, and at length 
 Seemed to forget, — yet ne'er forgot, — the wife 
 Of his first love, and her sweet little ones 
 Butchered amid their shrieks, with all his race. 
 Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise 
 Races of living things, glorious in strength, 
 And perish, as the quickening breath of God 
 Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man too — 
 Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, 
 And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought 
 A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds 
 No longer by these streams, but far away, 
 On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back 
 The white man's face — among Missouri's springs, 
 And pools whose issues swell the Oregon, 
 
THE PRAIRIES. 35 
 
 He rears his little Venice. In these plains 
 The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues 
 Beyond remotest smoke of hunter^s camp, 
 Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake 
 The earth with thundering steps — yet here I meet 
 His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool. 
 
 Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
 Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 
 They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, 
 And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, 
 Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 
 Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer 
 Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, 
 A more adventurous colonist than man, 
 With whom he came across the eastern deep, 
 Fills the savannas with his murmurings. 
 And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, 
 Within the hollow oak. I listen long 
 To his domestic hum, and think I hear 
 The sound of that advancing multitude 
 Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground 
 Comes up the laugh of children,^ the soft voice 
 Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 
 Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds 
 Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 
 Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once 
 A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, 
 And I am in the wilderness alone. 
 
36 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT black with clouds is in the sky ; 
 I seem to feel, upon my limbs, the weight 
 Of its vast brooding shadow. All in vain 
 Turns the tired eye in search of form ; no star 
 Pierces the pitchy veil ; no ruddy blaze, 
 From dwellings lighted by the cheerful hearth, 
 Tinges the flowering summits of the grass. 
 No sound of life is heard, no village hum, 
 Nor measured tramp of footstep in the path. 
 Nor rush of wing, while, on the breast of Earth, 
 I lie and listen to her mighty voice : 
 A voice of many tones — sent up from streams 
 That wander through the gloom, from woods unseen. 
 Swayed by the sweeping of the tides of air. 
 From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day, 
 And hollows of the great invisible hills. 
 And sands that edge the ocean, stretching far 
 Into the night — a melancholy sound ! 
 
 Oh Earth ! dost thou too sorrow for the past 
 Like man thy offspring ? Do I hear thee mourn 
 Thy childhood's unreturning hours, thy springs 
 Gone with their genial airs and melodies, 
 The gentle generations of thy flowers. 
 And thy majestic groves of olden time, 
 Perished with all their dwellers? Dost thou wail 
 For that fair age of which the poets tell. 
 Ere the rude winds grew keen with frost, or fire 
 Fell with the rains, or spouted from the hills, 
 
. EARTH. 37 
 
 To blast thy greenness, while the virgin night 
 
 Was guiltless and salubrious as the day? 
 
 Or haply dost thou grieve for those that die — 
 
 For living things that trod awhile thy face, 
 
 The love of thee and heaven — and now they sleep 
 
 Mixed with the shapeless dust on which thy herds 
 
 Trample and graze ? I too must grieve with thee, 
 
 O'er loved ones lost — their graves are far away 
 
 Upon thy mountains, yet, while I recline. 
 
 Alone, in darkness, on thy naked soil, 
 
 The mighty nourisher and burial-place 
 
 Of man, I feel that I embrace their dust. 
 
 Ha ! how the murmur deepens ! I perceive 
 And tremble at its dreadful import. Earth 
 Uplifts a general cry for guilt and wrong, 
 And Heaven is listening. The forgotten graves 
 Of the heart-broken utter forth their plaint. 
 The dust of her who loved and was betrayed, 
 And him who died neglected in his age ; 
 The sepulchres of those who for mankind 
 Labored, and earned the recompense of scorn ; 
 Ashes of martyrs for the truth, and bones 
 Of those who, in the strife for liberty. 
 Were beaten down, their corses given to dogs, 
 Their names to infamy, all find a voice. 
 The nook in which the captive, overtoiled. 
 Lay down to rest at last, and that which holds 
 Childhood^s sweet blossoms, crushed by cruel hands. 
 Send up a plaintive sound. From battle-fields. 
 Where heroes madly drave and dashed their hosts 
 Against each other, rises up a noise. 
 
38 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 As if the arm^d multitudes of dead 
 
 Stirred in their heavy skimber. Mournful tones 
 
 Come from the green abysses of the sea — 
 
 A story of the crimes the guilty sought 
 
 To hide beneath its waves. The glens, the groves, 
 
 Paths in the thicket, pools of running brook, 
 
 And banks and depths of lake, and streets and lanes 
 
 Of cities, now that living sounds are hushed. 
 
 Murmur of guilty force and treachery. 
 
 Here, where I rest, the vales of Italy 
 Are round me, populous from early time, 
 And field of the tremendous warfare waged 
 'Twixt good and evil. Who, alas, shall dare 
 Interpret to man^s ear the mingled voice 
 From all her ways and walls, and streets and streams. 
 And hills and fruitful fields ? Old dungeons breathe 
 Of horrors veiled from history ; the stones 
 Of mouldering amphitheatres, where flowed 
 The life-blood of the warrior slave, cry out. 
 The fanes of old religions, the proud piles 
 Reared with the spoil of empires, yea, the hearths 
 Of cities dug from their volcanic graves. 
 Report of human suffering and shame 
 And folly. Even the common dust, among 
 The springing corn and vine-rows, witnesses 
 To ages of oppression. Ah, I hear 
 A murmur of confused languages, 
 The utterance of nations now no more. 
 Driven out by mightier, as the days of heaven 
 Chase one another from the sky. The blood 
 Of freemen shed by freemen, till strange lords 
 
TO THE APENNINES. 39 
 
 Came in the hour of weakness, and made fast 
 The yoke that yet is worn, appeals to Heaven. 
 
 What then shall cleanse thy bosom, gentle Earth, 
 From all its painful memories of guilt ? 
 The whelming flood, or the renewing fire, 
 Or the slow change of time? that so, at last. 
 The horrid tale of perjury and strife, 
 Murder and spoil, which men call history. 
 May seem a fable, like the inventions told 
 By poets of the gods of Greece. Oh thou 
 Who sittest far beyond the Atlantic deep, 
 Among the sources of thy glorious streams, 
 My native Land of Groves ! a newer page 
 In the great record of the world is thine. 
 Shall it be fairer? Fear, and friendly Hope, 
 And Envy, watch the issue, while the lines. 
 By which thou shalt be judged, are written down. 
 
 TO THE APENNINES. 
 
 Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines ! 
 
 In the soft light of these serenest skies ; 
 From the broad highland region, black with pines, 
 
 Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise. 
 Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold 
 In rosy flushes on the virgin gold. 
 
 There, rooted to the aerial shelves that wear 
 The glory of a brighter world, might spring 
 
40 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Sweet flowers of heaven to scent the unbreathed air, 
 And heaven's fleet messengers might rest the wing, 
 To view the fair earth in its summer sleep, 
 Silent, and cradled by the glimmering deep. 
 
 Below you lie men's sepulchres, the old 
 Etrurian tombs, the graves of yesterday ; 
 
 The herd's white bones lie mixed with human 
 mould — 
 Yet up the radiant steeps that I survey 
 
 Death never climbed, nor life's soft breath, with pain, 
 
 Was yielded to the elements again. 
 
 Ages of war have filled these plains with fear ; 
 
 How oft the hind has started at the clash 
 Of spears, and yell of meeting armies here, 
 
 Or seen the lightning of the battle flash 
 From clouds, that rising with the thunder's sound, 
 Hung like an earth-born tempest o'er the ground. 
 
 Ah me ! what arm^d nations — Asian horde, 
 And Libyan host — the Scythian and the Gaul, 
 
 Have swept your base and through your passes poured, 
 Like ocean-tides uprising at the call 
 
 Of tyrant winds — against your rocky side 
 
 The bloody billows dashed, and howled, and died. 
 
 How crashed the towers before beleaguering foes, 
 Sacked cities smoked and realms were rent in twain ; 
 
 And commonwealths against their rivals rose, 
 
 Trode out their lives and earned the curse of Cain ! 
 
 While in the noiseless air and light that flowed 
 
 Round your fair brows, eternal Peace abode. 
 
THE KNIGHT'S EPITAPH. 41 
 
 Here pealed the impious hymn, and altar flames 
 Rose to false gods, a dream-begotten throng, 
 
 Jove, Bacchus, Pan, and earlier, fouler names ; 
 While, as the unheeding ages passed along, 
 
 Ye, from your station in the middle skies, 
 
 Proclaimed the essential Goodness, strong and wise. 
 
 In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeks 
 Her image ; there the winds no barrier know, 
 
 Clouds come and rest and leave your fairy peaks ; 
 While even the immaterial Mind, below, 
 
 And Thought, her winged oiTspring, chained by 
 power. 
 
 Pine silently for the redeeming hour. 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S EPITAPH. 
 
 This is the church which Pisa, great and free. 
 Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls, 
 That earthquakes shook not from their poise, appear 
 To shiver in the deep and voluble tones 
 Rolled from the organ ! Underneath my feet 
 There lies the lid of a sepulchral vault. 
 The image of an armed knight is graven 
 Upon it, clad in perfect panoply — 
 Cuishes, and greaves, and cuirass, with barred helm, 
 Gauntleted hand, and sword, and blazoned shield. 
 Around, in Gothic characters, worn dim 
 By feet of worshippers, are traced his name, 
 And birth, and death, and words of eulogy. 
 
42 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Why should I pore upon them? This old tomb, 
 
 This effigy, the strange disused form 
 
 Of this inscription, eloquently show 
 
 His history. Let me. clothe in fitting words 
 
 The thoughts they breathe, and frame his epitaph. 
 
 " He whose forgotten dust for centuries 
 Has lain beneath this stone, was one in whom 
 Adventure, and endurance, and emprise 
 Exalted the mind's faculties and strung 
 The body's sinews. Brave he was in fight, 
 Courteous in banquet, scornful of repose, 
 And bountiful, and cruel, and devout, 
 And quick to draw the sword in private feud. 
 He pushed his quarrels to the death, yet prayed 
 The saints as fervently on bended knees 
 As ever shaven cenobite. He loved 
 As fiercely as he fought. He would have borne 
 The maid that pleased him from her bower by night, 
 To his hill-castle, as the eagle bears 
 His victim from the fold, and rolled the rocks 
 On his pursuers. He aspired to see 
 His native Pisa queen and arbitress 
 Of cities ; earnestly for her he raised 
 His voice in council, and affronted death 
 In battle-field, and climbed the galley's deck, 
 And brought the captured flag of Genoa back, 
 Or piled upon the Arno's crowded quay 
 The glittering spoils of the tamed Saracen. 
 He was not born to brook the stranger's yoke. 
 But would have joined the exiles, that withdrew 
 Forever, when the Florentine broke in 
 
SEVENTY-SIX. 43 
 
 The gates of Pisa, and bore off the bolts 
 For trophies — but he died before that day. 
 
 " He Hved, the impersonation of an age 
 That never shall return. His soul of fire 
 Was kindled by the breath of the rude time 
 He lived in. Now a gentler race succeeds, 
 Shuddering at blood ; the effeminate cavalier, 
 Turning from the reproaches of the past, 
 And from the hopeless future, gives to ease, 
 And love, and music, his inglorious life." 
 
 SEVENTY-SIX. 
 
 What heroes from the v^oodland sprung. 
 When, through the fresh awakened land, 
 
 The thrilling cry of freedom rung, 
 
 And to the work of warfare strung 
 The yeoman's iron hand ! 
 
 Hills flung the cry to hills around, 
 
 And ocean-mart replied to mart, 
 And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, 
 Pealed far away the startling sound 
 
 Into the forest's heart. 
 
 Then marched the brave from rocky steep. 
 
 From mountain river swift and cold ; 
 The borders of the stormy deep. 
 The vales where gathered waters sleep. 
 Sent up the strong and bold, — 
 
44 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 As if the very earth again 
 
 Grew quick with God's creating breath. 
 And, from the sods of grove and glen, 
 Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 
 
 To battle to the death. 
 
 The wife, whose babe first smiled that day. 
 
 The fair fond bride of yester eve. 
 And aged sire and matron gray, 
 Saw the loved warriors haste away, 
 And deemed it sin to grieve. 
 
 Already had the strife begun ; 
 
 Already blood on Concord's plain 
 Along the springing grass had run, 
 And blood had flowed at Lexington, 
 
 Like brooks of April rain. 
 
 That death-stain on the vernal sward 
 Hallowed to freedom all the shore ; 
 
 In fragments fell the yoke abhorred — 
 
 The footstep of a foreign lord 
 Profaned the soil no more. 
 
 THE LIVING LOST. 
 
 Matron ! the children of whose love. 
 Each to his grave, in youth have passed, 
 
 And now the mould is heaped above 
 The dearest and the last ! 
 
THE LIVING LOST. 4$ 
 
 Bride ! who dost wear the widow's veil 
 Before the wedding flowers are pale ! 
 Ye deem the human heart endures 
 No deeper, bitterer grief than yours. 
 
 Yet there are pangs of keener woe, 
 
 Of which the sufferers never speak, 
 Nor to the world's cold pity show 
 The tears that scald the cheek. 
 Wrung from their eyelids by the shame 
 And guilt of those they shrink to name, 
 Whom once they loved, with cheerful will, 
 And love, though fallen and branded, still. 
 
 Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead, 
 
 Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve ; 
 
 And graceful are the tears ye shed. 
 And honored ye who grieve. 
 
 The praise of those who sleep in earth, 
 
 The pleasant memory of their worth, 
 
 The hope to meet when life is past, 
 
 Shall heal the tortured mind at last. 
 
 But ye, who for the living lost 
 
 That agony in secret bear. 
 Who shall with soothing words accost 
 
 The strength of your despair? 
 Grief for your sake is scorn for them 
 Whom ye lament and all condemn ; 
 And o'er the world of spirits lies 
 A gloom from which ye turn your eyes. 
 
46 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 THE STRANGE LADY, 
 
 The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are 
 darting by, 
 
 As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the 
 cool clear sky ; 
 
 Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rus- 
 tling sound. 
 
 An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the 
 ground. 
 
 A lovely woman from the wood comes suddenly in 
 sight ; 
 
 Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is brown 
 and bright ; 
 
 She wears a tunic of the blue, her belt with beads is 
 strung. 
 
 And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the Eng- 
 lish tongue. 
 
 " It was an idle bolt I sent, against the villain crow ; 
 
 Fair sir, I fear it harmed thy hand ; beshrew my err- 
 ing bow ! " 
 
 "Ah! would that bolt had not been spent, then, 
 lady, might I wear 
 
 A lasting token on my hand of one so passing fair ! " 
 
 " Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst thou 
 take with me 
 
 A day of hunting in the wilds, beneath the green- 
 wood tree, 
 
THE STRANGE LADY. 47 
 
 I know where most the pheasants feed, and where 
 
 the red-deer herd, 
 And thou shouldst chase the nobler game, and I 
 
 bring down the bird." 
 
 Now Albert in her quiver lays the arrow in its place, 
 And wonders as he gazes on the beauty of her face : 
 "Those hunting-grounds are far away, and, lady, 
 
 't were not meet 
 That night, amid the wilderness, should overtake thy 
 
 feet." 
 
 " Heed not the night, a summer lodge amid the wild 
 
 is mine, 
 'T is shadowed by the tulip-tree, 't is mantled by the 
 
 vine ; 
 The wild plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant 
 
 thickets nigh. 
 And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they 
 
 meet the sky. 
 
 " There in the boughs that hide the roof the mock- 
 bird sits and sings. 
 
 And there the hang-bird's brood within its little ham- 
 mock swings ; 
 
 A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among the 
 hopples sweep, 
 
 Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in upon thy 
 sleep." 
 
 Away, into the forest depths by pleasant paths they 
 He with his rifle on his arm, the lady with her bow, 
 
48 BRYANT'S POEMS, , 
 
 Where cornels arch their cool dark boughs o'er beds 
 
 of wintergreen, 
 And never at his father's door again was Albert seen. 
 
 That night upon the woods came down a furious hur- 
 ricane, 
 
 With howl of winds and roar of streams and beating 
 of the rain ; 
 
 The mighty thunder broke and drowned the noises 
 in its crash ; 
 
 The old trees seemed to fight like fiends beneath the 
 lightning flash. 
 
 Next day, within a mossy glen, 'mid mouldering 
 
 trunks were found 
 The fragments of a human form, upon the bloody 
 
 ground ; 
 White bones from which the flesh was torn, and locks 
 
 of glossy hair ; 
 They laid them in the place of graves, yet wist not 
 
 whose they were. 
 
 And whether famished evening wolves had mangled 
 Albert so. 
 
 Or that strange dame so gay and fair were some mys- 
 terious foe, 
 
 Or whether to that forest lodge, beyond the moun- 
 tains blue, 
 
 He went to dwell with her, the friends who mourned 
 him never knew. 
 
THE HUNTER'S VISION. 49 
 
 THE HUNTER'S VISION. 
 
 Upon a rock that, high, and sheer, 
 Rose from the mountain's breast, 
 
 A weary hunter of the deer 
 Had sat him down to rest, 
 
 And bared, to the soft summer air. 
 
 His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 
 
 All dim in haze the mountains lay, 
 With dimmer vales between ; 
 
 And rivers glimmered on their way, 
 By forests, faintly seen ; 
 
 While ever rose a murmuring sound. 
 
 From brooks below and bees around. 
 
 He listened, till he seemed to hear 
 
 A strain, so soft and low. 
 That whether in the mind or ear 
 
 The listener scarce might know. 
 With such a tone, so sweet and mild, 
 The watching mother lulls her child. 
 
 " Thou weary huntsman," thus it said, 
 " Thou faint with toil and heat, 
 
 The pleasant land of rest is spread 
 Before thy very feet. 
 
 And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 
 
 Are waiting there to welcome thee." 
 
 He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky, 
 Amid the noontide haze. 
 
5© BRYANT'S POEMS, 
 
 A shadowy region met his eye, 
 And grew beneath his gaze, 
 As if the vapors of the air 
 Had gathered into shapes so fair. 
 
 Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers 
 Showed bright on rocky bank. 
 
 And fountains welled beneath the bowers, 
 Where deer and pheasant drank. 
 
 He saw the glittering streams, he heard 
 
 The rustling bough and twittering bird. 
 
 And friends — the dead — in boyhood dear, 
 There lived and walked again. 
 
 And there was one who many a year 
 Within her grave had lain, 
 
 A fair young girl, the hamlefs pride — 
 
 His heart was breaking when she died : 
 
 "is 
 
 Bounding, as was her wont, she came 
 
 Right toward his resting-place. 
 And stretched her hand and called his name 
 
 With that sweet smiling face. 
 Forward, with fixed and eager eyes. 
 The hunter leaned in act to rise : 
 
 Forward he leaned, and headlong down 
 
 Plunged from that craggy wall. 
 He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown. 
 
 An instant in his fall ; 
 A frightful instant — and no more. 
 The dream and life at once were o'er. 
 
~^,IP 
 
 The Hunter's Vision. 
 
CATTERSKILL FALLS. 51 
 
 CATTERSKILL FALLS. 
 
 Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, 
 From cliffs where the wood-flower clings ; 
 
 All summer he moistens his verdant steeps 
 
 With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs ; 
 
 And he shakes the woods on the mountain side, 
 
 When they drip with the rains of autumn tide. 
 
 But when, in the forest bare and old, 
 
 The blast of December calls. 
 He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, 
 
 A palace of ice where his torrent falls. 
 With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair, 
 And pillars blue as the summer air. 
 
 For whom are those glorious chambers wrought. 
 
 In the cold and cloudless night? 
 Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought 
 
 In forms so lovely and hues so bright ? 
 Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell 
 Of this wild stream and its rocky dell. 
 
 T was hither a youth of dreamy mood, 
 
 A hundred winters ago, 
 Had wandered over the mighty wood. 
 
 When the panther's track was fresh on the snow. 
 And keen were the winds that came to stir 
 The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir. 
 
 Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair, 
 For a child of those rugged steeps ; 
 
52 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 His home lay low in the valley where 
 
 The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps ; 
 But he wore the hunter's frock that day, 
 And a slender gun on his shoulder lay. 
 
 And here he paused, and against the trunk 
 
 Of a tall gray linden leant, 
 When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk 
 
 From his path in the frosty firmament, 
 And over the round dark edge of the hill 
 A cold green light was quivering still. 
 
 And the crescent moon, high over the green, 
 
 From a sky of crimson shone, 
 On that icy palace, whose towers were seen 
 
 To sparkle as if with stars of their own ; 
 While the water fell, with a hollow sound, 
 'Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around. 
 
 Is that a being of life, that moves 
 Where the crystal battlements rise ? 
 
 A maiden, watching the moon she loves, 
 At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes? 
 
 Was that a garment which seemed to gleam 
 
 Betwixt the eye and the falling stream? 
 
 'T is only the torrent, tumbling o'er, 
 In the midst of those glassy walls. 
 
 Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor 
 Of the rocky basin in which it falls. 
 
 'T is only the torrent — but why that start? 
 
 Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart? 
 
CATTERSKILL FALLS. 53 
 
 He thinks no more of his home afar. 
 
 Where his sire and sister wait. 
 He heeds no longer how star after star 
 • Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late. 
 He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast. 
 From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast. 
 
 His thoughts are alone of those who dwell 
 
 In the halls of frost and snow. 
 Who pass where the crystal domes upswell 
 
 From the alabaster floors below, 
 Where the frost-trees bourgeon with leaf and spray, 
 And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. 
 
 " And oh that those glorious haunts were mine ! " 
 
 He speaks, and throughout the glen 
 Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine. 
 
 And take a ghastly likeness of men, 
 As if the slain by the wintry storms 
 Came forth to the air in their earthly forms. 
 
 There pass the chasers of seal and whale, 
 
 With their weapons quaint and grim, 
 And bands of warriors in glimmering mail, 
 
 And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb. 
 There are naked arms, with bow and spear, 
 And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. 
 
 There are mothers — and oh how sadly their eyes 
 
 On their children's white brows rest ; 
 There are youthful lovers — the maiden lies 
 
 In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast ; 
 
54 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, 
 The snow stars flecking their long loose hair. 
 
 They eye him not as they pass along, 
 
 But his hair stands up with dread, 
 When he feels that he moves with that phantom 
 throng. 
 
 Till those icy turrets are over his head, 
 And the torrent's roar as they enter seems 
 Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams. 
 
 The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, 
 When there gathers and wraps him round 
 
 A thick white twilight, sullen and vast. 
 In which there is neither form nor sound ; 
 
 The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, 
 
 With the dying voice of the waterfall. 
 
 Slow passes the darkness of that trance. 
 
 And the youth now faintly sees 
 Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance 
 
 On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees. 
 And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, 
 And rifles glitter on antlers strung. 
 
 On a couch of shaggy skins he lies ; 
 
 As he strives to raise his head, 
 Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, 
 
 Come round him and smooth his furry bed. 
 And bid him rest, for the evening star 
 Is scarcely set, and the day is far. 
 
THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 55 
 
 They had found at eve the dreaming one 
 
 By the base of that icy steep, 
 When over his stiffening limbs begun 
 
 The deadly slumber of frost to creep, 
 And they cherished the pale and breathless form, 
 Till the stasfnant blood ran free and warm. 
 
 THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 Ay this is freedom ! — these pure skies 
 
 Were never stained with village smoke : 
 The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 
 
 Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 
 Here, with my rifle and my steed, 
 
 And her who left the world for me, 
 I plant me, where the red deer feed 
 
 In the green desert — and am free. 
 
 For here the fair savannas know 
 
 No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
 Wherever breeze of heaven may blow. 
 
 Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
 In pastures, measureless as air, 
 
 The bison is my noble game ; 
 The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 
 
 The branches, falls before my aim. 
 
 Mine are the river-fowl that scream 
 From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 
 
 The bear, that marks my weapon's gleam, 
 Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
 
56 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 
 
 The brinded catamount, that lies 
 High in the boughs to watch his prey, 
 
 Even in the act of springing, dies. 
 
 With what free growth the elm and plane 
 
 Fling their huge arms across my way, 
 Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 
 
 Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! 
 Free stray the lucid streams, and find 
 
 No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
 Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 
 
 Where never scythe has swept the glades. 
 
 Alone the Fire, when frostwinds sere 
 
 The heavy herbage of the ground, 
 Gathers his annual harvest here. 
 
 With roaring like the battle's sound. 
 And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 
 
 And smoke-streams gushing up the sky : 
 I meet the flames with flames again, 
 
 And at my door they cower and die. 
 
 Here, from dim woods, the aged past 
 
 Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 
 The boundless future in the vast 
 
 And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
 Who feeds its founts with rain and dew.? 
 
 Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass. 
 And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 
 
 Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 
 
THE DAMSEL OF PERU. 57 
 
 Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 
 
 Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
 Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 
 
 Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
 I hunt, till day's last glimmer dies 
 
 O'er woody vale and grassy height ; 
 And kind the voice and glad the eyes. 
 
 That welcome my return at night. 
 
 THE DAMSEL OF PERU. 
 
 WHERE olive leaves were twinkHng in every wind 
 
 that blew, 
 There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of 
 
 Peru. 
 Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the 
 
 air, 
 Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy 
 
 hair ; 
 And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady 
 
 nook, 
 As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of 
 
 hidden brook. 
 
 'T is a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish 
 
 tongue. 
 That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was 
 
 sung; 
 When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish 
 
 rout below, 
 
58 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept 
 
 away the foe. 
 Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth 
 
 anew 
 A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru. 
 
 A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks 
 
 forth, 
 And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly 
 
 toward the north. 
 Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest 
 
 sight would fail, 
 To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale ; 
 For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely 
 
 beat, 
 And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in 
 
 the heat. 
 
 That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is 
 
 gone. 
 But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly 
 
 on. 
 Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and 
 
 low, — 
 A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, 
 Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave. 
 And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave. 
 
 But see, along that mountain's slope, a fiery horse- 
 man ride ; 
 
 Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at 
 his side. 
 
A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. 59 
 
 His spurs are buried rowel deep, he rides with loos- 
 ened rein, 
 
 There 's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon 
 the mane, 
 
 He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that 
 shaded hill, — 
 
 God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should 
 mean her ill ! 
 
 And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I 
 
 hear 
 A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek — but not 
 
 of fear. 
 For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak 
 The overflow of gladness, when words are all too 
 
 weak : 
 " I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is 
 
 free, 
 And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with 
 
 thee." 
 
 A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. 
 
 Come, take our boy, and we will go 
 
 Before our cabin door ; 
 The winds shall bring us, as they blow, 
 
 The murmurs of the shore ; 
 And we will kiss his young blue eyes, 
 And I will sing him, as he lies, 
 
 Songs that were made of yore : 
 I '11 sing, in his delighted ear. 
 The island lays thou lov'st to hear. 
 
6o BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And thou, while stammering I repeat, 
 
 Thy country's tongue shalt teach ; 
 'T is not so soft, but far more sweet, 
 
 Than my own native speech : 
 For thou no other tongue didst know, 
 When, scarcely twenty moons ago. 
 
 Upon Tahete's beach, 
 Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine, 
 With many a speaking look and sign. 
 
 I knew thy meaning — thou didst praise 
 
 My eyes, my locks of jet ; 
 Ah ! well for me they won thy gaze, — 
 
 But thine were fairer yet ! 
 I 'm glad to see my infant wear 
 Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair. 
 
 And when my sight is met 
 By his white brow and blooming cheek, 
 I feel a joy I cannot speak. 
 
 Come talk of Europe's maids with me, 
 Whose necks and cheeks, they tell, 
 Outshine the beauty of the sea. 
 
 White foam and crimson shell. 
 I '11 shape like theirs my simple dress, 
 And bind like them each jetty tress, 
 
 A sight to please thee well : 
 And for my dusky brow will braid 
 A bonnet like an English maid. 
 
 Come, for the soft low sunlight calls, 
 We lose the pleasant hours ; 
 
RIZPAH. 6 1 
 
 T is lovelier than these cottage walls, — 
 
 That seat among the flowers. 
 And I will learn of thee a prayer. 
 To Him, who gave a home so fair, 
 
 A lot so blessed as ours — 
 The God who made, for thee and me, 
 This sweet lone isle amid the sea. 
 
 RIZPAH. 
 
 And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and 
 they hanged them in the hill before the Lord ; and they fell all 
 seven together, and were put to death in the days of the harvest, 
 in the first days, in the beginning of barley-harvest. 
 
 And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread 
 it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until the 
 water dropped upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the 
 birds of the air to rest upon them by day, nor the beasts of the 
 field by night. — 2 Sam. xxi. 10. 
 
 Hear what the desolate Rizpah said, 
 As on Gibeah's rocks she watched the dead. 
 The sons of Michal before her lay, 
 And her own fair children dearer than they : 
 By a death of shame they all had died. 
 And were stretched on the bare rock, side by side. 
 And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all 
 That bloomed and smiled in the court of Saul, 
 All wasted with watching and famine now. 
 And scorched by the sun her haggard brow. 
 Sat, mournfully guarding their corpses there. 
 And murmured a strange and solemn air ; 
 
62 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 The low, heart-broken, and wailing strain 
 Of a mother that mourns her children slain. 
 
 " I have made the crags my home, and spread 
 On their desert backs my sackcloth bed ; 
 I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks, 
 And drunk the midnight dew in my locks ; 
 I have wept till I could not weep, and the pain 
 Of my burning eyeballs went to my brain. 
 Seven blackened corpses before me lie, 
 In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky. 
 I have watched them through the burning day. 
 And driven the vulture and raven away ; 
 And the cormorant wheeled in circles round. 
 Yet feared to alight on the guarded ground. 
 And, when the shadows of twilight came, 
 I have seen the hyena's eyes of flame. 
 And heard at my side his stealthy tread. 
 But aye at my shout the savage fled : 
 And I threw the lighted brand, to fright 
 The jackal and wolf that yelled in the night. 
 
 " Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons . 
 By the hands of wicked and cruel ones ; 
 Ye fell, in your fresh and blooming prime, 
 All innocent, for your father's crime. 
 He sinned — but he paid the price of his guilt 
 When his blood by a nameless hand was spilt ; 
 When he strove with the heathen host in vain, 
 And fell with the flower of his people slain. 
 And the sceptre his children's hands should sway 
 From his injured lineage passed away. 
 
RIZPAH. 63 
 
 ** But I hoped that the cottage roof would be 
 A safe retreat for my sons and me ; 
 And that while they ripened to manhood fast, 
 They should wean my thoughts from the woes of 
 
 the past. 
 And my bosom swelled with a mother's pride. 
 As they stood in their beauty and strength by my 
 
 side. 
 Tall like their sire, with the princely grace 
 Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face. 
 
 " Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart, 
 When the pitiless rufifians tore us apart ! 
 When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed, 
 And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid. 
 And clung to my sons with desperate strength, 
 Till the murderers loosed my hold at length, 
 And bore me breathless and faint aside. 
 In their iron arms, while my children died. 
 They died — and the mother that gave them birth 
 Is forbid to cover their bones with earth. 
 
 " The barley-harvest was nodding white, 
 When my children died on the rocky height. 
 And the reapers were singing on hill and plain. 
 When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. 
 But now the season of rain is nigh. 
 The sun is dim in the thickening sky, 
 And the clouds in sullen darkness rest 
 Where he hides his light at the doors of the west. 
 I hear the howl of the wind that brings 
 The long drear storm on its heavy wings ; 
 
64 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 But the howling wind, and the driving rain 
 Will beat on my houseless head in vain : 
 I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare 
 The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air." 
 
 THE INDIAN GIRDS LAMENT, 
 
 An Indian girl was sitting where 
 Her lover, slain in battle, slept ; 
 
 Her maiden veil, her own black hair, 
 Came down o'er eyes that wept ; 
 
 And wildly, in her woodland tongue. 
 
 This sad and simple lay she sung : 
 
 '* I've pulled away the shrubs that grew 
 Too close above thy sleeping head, 
 
 And broke the forest boughs that threw 
 Their shadows o'er thy bed. 
 
 That shining from the sweet south-west 
 
 The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 
 
 "It was a weary, weary road 
 
 That led thee to thy pleasant coast. 
 
 Where thou, in his serene abode, 
 Hast met thy father's ghost ; 
 
 Where everlasting autumn lies 
 
 On yellow woods and sunny skies. 
 
 " 'T was I the broidered mocsin made. 
 That shod thee for that distant land ; 
 
THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 65 
 
 'T was I thy bow and arrows laid 
 
 Beside thy still cold hand ; 
 Thy bow in many a battle bent, 
 Thy arrows never vainly sent. 
 
 " With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, 
 And wrapped thee in the bison's hide. 
 
 And laid the food that pleased thee best, 
 In plenty, by thy side, 
 
 And decked thee bravely, as became 
 
 A warrior of illustrious name. 
 
 " Thou 'rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
 
 The long dark journey of the grave. 
 And in the land of light, at last. 
 
 Hast joined the good and brave ; 
 Amid the flushed and balmy air. 
 The bravest and the loveliest there. 
 
 " Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid 
 
 Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray, — 
 To her who sits where thou wert laid, 
 
 And weeps the hours away, 
 Yet almost can her grief forget. 
 To think that thou dost love her yet. 
 
 " And thou, by one of those still lakes 
 
 That in a shining cluster lie. 
 On which the south wind scarcely breaks 
 
 The image of the sky, 
 A bower for thee and me hast made 
 Beneath the many-colored shade. 
 
66 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 *' And thou dost wait and watch to meet 
 My spirit sent to join the blest. 
 
 And, wondering what detains my feet 
 From the bright land of rest, 
 
 Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 
 
 The rustling of my footsteps near." 
 
 THE ARCTIC LOVER. 
 
 Gone is the long, long winter night, 
 
 Look, my beloved one ! 
 How glorious, through his depths of light, 
 
 Rolls the majestic sun. 
 The willows, waked from winter's death. 
 Give out a fragrance like thy breath — 
 
 The summer is begun ! 
 
 Ay, 't is the long bright summer day : 
 
 Hark, to that mighty crash ! 
 The loosened ice-ridge breaks away — 
 
 The smitten waters flash. 
 Seaward the glittering mountain rides, 
 While, down its green translucent sides, 
 
 The foamy torrents dash. 
 
 See, love, my boat is moored for thee, 
 
 By ocean^s weedy floor — 
 The petrel does not skim the sea 
 
 More swiftly than my oar. 
 We '11 go where, on the rocky isles, 
 Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles 
 
 Beside the pebbly shore. 
 
THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 67 
 
 Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, 
 
 With wind-flowers frail and fair, 
 While I, upon his isle of snows, 
 
 Seek and defy the bear. 
 Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, 
 This arm his savage strength shall tame, 
 
 And drag him from his lair. 
 
 When crimson sky and flamy cloud 
 
 Bespeak the summer o'er. 
 And the dead valleys wear a shroud 
 
 Of snows that melt no more, 
 I '11 build of ice thy winter home. 
 With glistening walls and glassy dome, 
 
 And spread with skins the floor. 
 
 The white fox by thy couch shall play ; 
 
 And, from the frozen skies. 
 The meteors of a mimic day 
 
 Shall flash upon thine eyes. 
 And I — for such thy vow — meanwhile 
 Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, 
 
 Till that long midnight flies. 
 
 THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 
 
 Weep not for Scio's children slain ; 
 
 Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed. 
 Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain 
 
 For vengeance on the murderer's head. 
 
68 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Though high the warm red torrent ran 
 Between the flames that lit the sky, 
 
 Yet, for each drop, an armed man 
 Shall rise, to free the land, or die. 
 
 And for each corpse, that in the sea 
 Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, 
 
 A hundred of the foe shall be 
 
 A banquet for the mountain birds. 
 
 Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain 
 To keep that day, along her shore. 
 
 Till the last link of slavery's chain 
 Is shivered, to be worn no more. 
 
 VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIM ONI- 
 
 DES. 
 
 The night winds howled — the billows dashed 
 
 Against the tossing chest ; 
 And Danae to her broken heart 
 
 Her slumbering infant pressed. 
 
 " My little child " — in tears she said — 
 
 " To wake and weep is mine, 
 But thou canst sleep — thou dost not know 
 
 Thy mother's lot, and thine. 
 
 " The moon is up, the moonbeams smile — 
 
 They tremble on the main ; 
 But dark, within my floating cell. 
 
 To me they smile in vain. 
 
THE GREEK PARTISAN: 69 
 
 ** Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, 
 
 Thy clustering locks are dry, 
 Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust, 
 
 Nor breakers booming high. 
 
 " As o'er thy sweet unconscious face 
 
 A mournful watch I keep, 
 I think, didst thou but know thy fate, 
 
 How thou wouldst also weep. 
 
 *' Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds 
 
 That vex the restless brine — 
 When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed 
 
 As peacefully as thine ? " 
 
 THE GREEK PARTISAN: 
 
 Our free flag is dancing 
 
 In the free mountain air. 
 And burnished arms are glancing. 
 
 And warriors gathering there ; 
 And fearless is the little train 
 
 Whose gallant bosoms shield it ; 
 The blood that warms their hearts shall stain 
 
 That banner, ere they yield it. 
 — Each dark eye is fixed on earth, 
 
 And brief each solemn greeting ; 
 There is no look or sound of mirth. 
 
 Where those stern men are meeting. 
 
 They go to the slaughter, 
 To strike the sudden blow, 
 
7© BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And pour on earth, like water, 
 
 The best blood of the foe ; 
 To rush on them from rock and height, 
 
 And clear the narrow valley, 
 Or fire their camp at dead of night, 
 
 And fly before they rally. 
 
 — Chains are round our country pressed. 
 And cowards have betrayed her. 
 
 And we must make her bleeding breast 
 The grave of the invader. 
 
 Not till from her fetters 
 
 We raise up Greece again. 
 And write, in bloody letters. 
 
 That tyranny is slain, — 
 Oh, not till then the smile shall steal 
 
 Across those darkened faces. 
 Nor one of all those warriors feel 
 
 His children's dear embraces. 
 
 — Reap we not the ripened wheat. 
 Till yonder hosts are flying. 
 
 And all their bravest, at our feet, 
 Like autumn sheaves are lying. 
 
 ROMERO. 
 
 When freedom, from the land of Spain, 
 By Spain's degenerate sons was driven, 
 
 Who gave their willing limbs again 
 To wear the chain so lately riven ; 
 
ROMERO. 71 
 
 Romero broke the sword he wore — 
 
 " Go, faithful brand," the warrior said, 
 *' Go, undishonored, never more 
 
 The blood of man shall make thee red ; 
 
 I grieve for that already shed ; 
 And I am sick at heart to know. 
 That faithful friend and noble foe 
 Have only bled to make more strong 
 The yoke that Spain has worn so long. 
 Wear it who will, in abject fear — 
 
 I wear it not who have been free ; 
 The perjured Ferdinand shall hear 
 
 No oath of loyalty from me." 
 Then, hunted by the hounds of power, 
 
 Romero chose a safe retreat, 
 Where bleak Nevada's summits tower 
 
 Above the beauty at their feet. 
 There once, when on his cabin lay 
 The crimson light of setting day. 
 When even on the mountain's breast 
 The chainless winds were all at rest. 
 And he could hear the river's flow 
 From the calm paradise below ; 
 Warmed with his former fires again. 
 He framed this rude but solemn strain. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Here will I make my home — for here at least I 
 
 see, 
 Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Liberty ; 
 Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the un- 
 
 pruned lime. 
 
)2 BRYANT^S POEMS. 
 
 And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of 
 
 the mountain thyme ; 
 Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild 
 
 vine strays at will. 
 An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with 
 
 Nature still. 
 
 II. 
 
 "I see the valleys, Spain! where thy mighty 
 
 rivers run, 
 And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards 
 
 to the sun. 
 And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle 
 
 all the green. 
 Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and 
 
 olive shades between : 
 I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate 
 
 near. 
 And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost 
 
 reach me here. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Fair— fair — but fallen Spain ! 't is with a swell- 
 ing heart. 
 
 That I think on all thou might'st have been, and look 
 at what thou art ; 
 
 But the strife is over now — and all the good and 
 brave, 
 
 That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile 
 or the grave. 
 
MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 73 
 
 Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes are for the con- 
 vent feast, 
 
 And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pam- 
 pered lord and priest. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "But I shall see the day — it will come before I 
 die — 
 I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age- 
 dimmed eye ; — 
 When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound, 
 As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of 
 
 the ground ; 
 And, to my mountain cell, the voices of the free 
 Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders of 
 the sea." 
 
 , MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild 
 Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, 
 Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
 Fail not with weariness, for on their tops 
 The beauty and the majesty of earth, 
 Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget 
 The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st. 
 The haunts of men below thee, and around 
 The mountain summits, thy expanding heart 
 Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world 
 To which thou art translated, and partake 
 The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look 
 
74 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Upon the green and rolling forest tops, 
 
 And down into the secrets of the glens, 
 
 And streams, that with their bordering thickets strive 
 
 To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once, 
 
 Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, 
 
 And swarming roads, and there on solitudes 
 
 That only hear the torrent, and the wind. 
 
 And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice 
 
 That seems a fragment of some mighty wall. 
 
 Built by the hand that fashioned the old world. 
 
 To separate its nations, and thrown down 
 
 When the flood drowned them. To the north a 
 
 path 
 Conducts you up the narrow battlement. 
 Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild 
 With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint. 
 And many a hanging crag. But, to the east, 
 Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliifs, 
 Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear 
 Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 
 With the thick moss of centuries, and there 
 Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt 
 Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing 
 To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 
 Where storm and lightning, from that huge wall. 
 Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base 
 Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear 
 Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 
 Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, 
 Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene 
 Is lovely round ; a beautiful river there 
 Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, 
 
MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 75 
 
 The paradise he made unto himself, 
 
 Mining the soil for ages. On each side 
 
 The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond, 
 
 Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 
 
 The mighty columns with which earth props heaven. 
 
 There is a tale about these gray old rocks, 
 A sad tradition of unhappy love, 
 And sorrows borne and ended, long ago. 
 When over these fair vales the savage sought 
 His game in the thick woods. There was a maid, 
 The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed, 
 With wealth of raven tresses, a light form. 
 And a gay heart. About her cabin door 
 The wide old woods resounded with her song 
 And fairy laughter all the summer day. 
 She loved her cousin ; such a love was deemed, 
 By the morality of those stern tribes. 
 Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long 
 Against her love, and reasoned with her heart. 
 As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. 
 Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step 
 Its lightness, and the gray old men that passed 
 Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more 
 The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks 
 Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, 
 Upon the Winter of their age. She went 
 To weep where no eye saw, and was not found 
 When all the merry girls were met to dance. 
 And all the hunters of the tribe were out ; 
 Nor when they gathered from the rustling husk 
 The shining ear ; nor when, by the river's side. 
 
76 BRYAMT'S POEMS, 
 
 They pulled the grape and startled the wild shades 
 With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames 
 Would whisper to each other, as they saw 
 Her wasting form, and say, the girl will die. 
 
 One day into the bosom of a friend, 
 A playmate of her young and innocent years. 
 She poured her griefs. " Thou know'st, and thou 
 
 alone,*' 
 She said, " for I have told thee, all my love, 
 And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life. 
 All night I weep in darkness, and the morn 
 Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed. 
 That has no business on the earth, I hate 
 The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once 
 I loved ; the cheerful voices of my friends 
 Have an unnatural horror in mine ear. 
 In dreams my mother, from the land of souls, 
 Calls me and chides me. All that look on me 
 Do seem to know my shame ; I cannot bear 
 Their eyes ; I cannot from my heart root out 
 The love that wrings it so, and I must die." 
 
 It was a summer morning, and they went 
 To this old precipice. About the cliffs 
 Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins 
 Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe 
 Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed, 
 Like worshippers of the elder time, that God 
 Doth Wc.lk on the high places and affect 
 The earth-o"'erlooking mountains. She had on 
 The ornaments with which her father loved 
 To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl. 
 
MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 77 
 
 And bade her wear when stranger warriors came 
 
 To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down, 
 
 And sang, all day, old songs of love and death. 
 
 And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers, 
 
 And prayed that safe and swift might be her way 
 
 To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief 
 
 Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 
 
 Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 
 
 Below her — waters resting in the embrace 
 
 Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades 
 
 Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 
 
 She gazed upon it long, and at the sight 
 
 Of her own village peeping through the trees, 
 
 And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof 
 
 Of him she loved with an unlawful love. 
 
 And came to die for, a warm gush of tears 
 
 Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low 
 
 And the hill shadows long, she threw herself 
 
 From the steep rock and perished. There was 
 
 scooped. 
 Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave ; 
 And there they laid her, in the very garb 
 With which the maiden decked herself for death. 
 With the same withering wild flowers in her hair. 
 And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe 
 Built up a simple monument, a cone 
 Of small loose stones. Thenceforward, all who 
 
 passed, 
 Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone 
 In silence on the pile. It stands there yet. 
 And Indians from the distant West, who come 
 To visit where their fathers' bones are laid. 
 
78 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day 
 The mountain where the hapless maiden died 
 Is called the Mountain of the Monument. 
 
 THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 
 
 When spring, to woods and wastes around, 
 
 Brought bloom and joy again, 
 The murdered traveller's bones were found. 
 
 Far down a narrow glen. 
 
 The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
 
 Her tassels in the sky ; 
 And many a vernal blossom sprung, 
 
 And nodded careless by. 
 
 The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
 
 His hanging nest overhead. 
 And fearless, near the fatal spot, 
 
 Her young the partridge led. 
 
 But there was weeping far away, 
 
 And gentle eyes, for him, 
 With watching many an anxious day, 
 
 Were sorrowful and dim. 
 
 They little knew, who loved him so, 
 
 The fearful death he met, 
 When shouting o'er the desert snow, 
 
 Unarmed, and hard beset ; — 
 
SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON, 79 
 
 Nor how, when round the frosty pole 
 
 The northern dawn was red, 
 The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
 
 To banquet on the dead ; — 
 
 Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
 
 They dressed the hasty bier, 
 And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
 
 Unmoistened by a tear. 
 
 But long they looked, and feared, and wept. 
 
 Within his distant home ; 
 And dreamed, and started as they slept, 
 
 For joy that he was come. 
 
 So long they looked — but never spied 
 
 His welcome step again. 
 Nor knew the fearful death he died 
 
 Far down that narrow glen. 
 
 SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. 
 
 I BUCKLE to my slender side 
 
 The pistol and the cimetar, 
 And in my maiden flower and pride 
 
 Am come to share the tasks of war. 
 And yonder stands my fiery steed. 
 
 That paws the ground and neighs to go. 
 My charger of the Arab breed, — 
 
 I took him from the routed foe. 
 
8o BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 My mirror is the mountain spring, 
 
 At which I dress my ruffled hair ; 
 My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, 
 
 And wash away the blood-stain there. 
 Why should I guard, from wind and sun, 
 
 This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled? 
 It was for one — oh, only one — 
 
 I kept its bloom, and he is dead. 
 
 But they who slew him — unaware 
 
 Of coward murderers lurking nigh — 
 And left him to the fowls of air, 
 
 Are yet alive — and they must die. 
 They slew him — and my virgin years 
 
 Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, 
 And many an Othman dame, in tears, 
 
 Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow. 
 
 I touched the lute in better days, 
 
 I led in dance the joyous band ; 
 Ah ! they may move to mirthful lays 
 
 Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. 
 The march of hosts that haste to meet 
 
 Seems gayer than the dance to me ; 
 The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet 
 
 As the fierce shout of victory. 
 
THE AFRICAN CHIEF. "8i 
 
 THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 
 
 Chained in the market-place he stood, 
 
 A man of giant frame, 
 Amid the gathering multitude 
 
 That shrunk to hear his name — 
 All stern of look and strong of limb, 
 
 His dark eye on the ground : — 
 And silently they gazed on him, 
 
 As on a lion bound. 
 
 Vainly, but well, that chief had fought. 
 
 He was a captive now. 
 Yet pride, that fortune humbles not. 
 
 Was written on his brow. 
 The scars his dark broad bosom wore 
 
 Showed warrior true and brave ; 
 A prince among his tribe before, 
 
 He could not be a slave. 
 
 Then to his conqueror he spake — 
 
 " My brother is a king ; 
 Undo this necklace from my neck, 
 
 And take this bracelet ring, 
 And send me where my brother reigns, 
 
 And I will fill thy hands 
 With store of ivory from the plains, 
 
 And gold-dust from the sands." 
 
 " Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 
 
 Will I unbind thy chain ; 
 That bloody hand shall never hold 
 
 The battle-spear again. 
 
BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 A price thy nation never gave, 
 
 Shall yet be paid for thee ; 
 For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, 
 
 In lands beyond the sea." 
 
 Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 
 
 To shred his locks away ; 
 And, one by one, each heavy braid 
 
 Before the victor lay. 
 Thick were the platted locks, and long. 
 
 And deftly hidden there 
 Shone many a wedge of gold among 
 
 The dark and crisped hair. 
 
 *' Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 
 
 Long kept for sorest need ; 
 Take it — thou askest sums untold, 
 
 And say that I am freed. 
 Take it — my wife, the long, long day, 
 
 Weeps by the cocoa-tree. 
 And my young children leave their play, 
 
 And ask in vain for me." 
 
 " I take thy gold — but I have made 
 
 Thy fetters fast and strong, 
 And ween that by the cocoa shade 
 
 Thy wife will wait thee long." 
 Strong was the agony that shook 
 
 The captive's frame to hear, 
 And the proud meaning of his look 
 
 Was changed to mortal fear. 
 
The African Chief. 
 
SONG. 83 
 
 His heart was broken — crazed his brain : 
 
 At once his eye grew wild ; 
 He struggled fiercely with his chain, 
 
 Whispered, and wept, and smiled ; 
 Yet wore not long those fatal bands, 
 
 And once, at shut of day. 
 They drew him forth upon the sands, 
 
 The foul hyena's prey. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow 
 Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear, 
 
 The hunter of the West must go. 
 In depths of woods to seek the deer. 
 
 His rifle on his shoulder placed. 
 
 His stores of death arranged with skill, 
 
 His moccasins and snow-shoes laced, — 
 Why lingers he beside the hill? 
 
 Far, in the dim and doubtful light. 
 Where woody slopes a valley leave, 
 
 He sees what none but lover might. 
 The dwelling of his Genevieve. 
 
 And oft he turns his truant eye. 
 And pauses oft, and lingers near ; 
 
 But when he marks the reddening sky. 
 He bounds away to hunt the deer. 
 
84 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 AN INDIAN STORY. 
 
 *' I KNOW where the timid fawn abides 
 
 In the depths of the shaded dell, 
 Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, 
 With its many stems and its tangled sides, 
 
 From the eye of the hunter well. 
 
 " I know where the young May violet grows, 
 
 In its lone and lowly nook, 
 On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws 
 Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose. 
 
 Far over the silent brook. 
 
 " And that timid fawn starts not with fear 
 
 When I steal to her secret bower, 
 And that young May violet to me is dear, 
 And I visit the silent streamlet near. 
 
 To look on the lovely flower."' 
 
 Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks 
 To the hunting-ground on the hills ; 
 T is a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, 
 With her bright black eyes and long black locks. 
 And voice like the music of rills. 
 
 He goes to the chase — but evil eyes 
 
 Are at watch in the thicker shades ; 
 For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, 
 And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, 
 The flower of the forest maids. 
 
AN INDIAN STORY. 85 
 
 The boughs in the morning wind are stirred. 
 
 And the woods their song renew, 
 With the early carol of many a bird, 
 And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard 
 
 Where the hazels trickle with dew. 
 
 And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, 
 
 Ere eve shall redden the sky, 
 A good red deer from the forest shade. 
 That bounds with the herd through grove and 
 glade, 
 
 At her cabin door shall lie. 
 
 The hollow woods, in the setting sun. 
 
 Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay ; 
 And Maquon's sylvan labors are done, 
 And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won 
 
 He bears on his homeward way. 
 
 He stops near his bower — his eye perceives 
 
 Strange traces along the ground — 
 At once, to the earth his burden he heaves, 
 And breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, 
 
 And gains its door with a bound. 
 
 But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, 
 
 And all from the young shrubs there 
 By struggling hands have the leaves been rent. 
 And there hangs, on the sassafras broken and 
 bent. 
 One tress of the well-known hair. 
 
S6 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 But where is she who at this calm hour, 
 
 Ever watched his coming to see ? 
 She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower, 
 He calls — but he only hears on the flower 
 The hum of the laden bee. 
 
 It is not a time for idle grief, 
 
 Nor a time for tears to flow, 
 The horror that freezes his limbs is brief — 
 He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf 
 
 Of darts made sharp for the foe. 
 
 And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, 
 
 Where he bore the maiden away ; 
 And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 
 Than the blast that hurries the vapor and sleet 
 O'er the wild November day. 
 
 'T was early summer when Maquon's bride 
 
 Was stolen away from his door ; 
 But at length the maples in crimson are dyed. 
 And the grape is black on the cabin side, 
 
 And she smiles at his hearth once more. 
 
 But far in a pine-grove, dark and cold, 
 
 Where the yellow leaf falls not. 
 Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, 
 There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould. 
 In the deepest gloom of the spot. 
 
THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. 87 
 
 And the Indian girls, that pass that way, 
 
 Point out the ravisher's grave ; 
 " And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, 
 " Returned the maid that was borne away 
 
 From Maquon, the fond and the brave." 
 
 THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. 
 
 Thy bower is finished, fairest ! 
 
 Fit bower for hunter's bride — 
 Where old woods overshadow . 
 
 The green savanna's side. 
 I Ve wandered long, and wandered far. 
 
 And never have I met, 
 In all this lovely western land, 
 
 A spot so lovely yet. 
 But I shall think it fairer, 
 
 When thou art come to bless. 
 With thy sweet smile and silver voice, 
 
 Its silent loveliness. 
 
 For thee the wild grape glistens, 
 
 On sunny knoll and tree. 
 And stoops the slim papaya 
 
 With yellow fruit for thee. 
 For thee the duck, on glassy stream. 
 
 The prairie-fowl shall die, 
 My rifle for thy feast shall bring 
 
 The wild swan from the sky. 
 The forest's leaping panther, 
 
 Fierce, beautiful, and fleet, 
 
SS BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Shall yield his spotted hide to be 
 A carpet for thy feet. 
 
 I know, for thou hast told me, 
 
 Thy maiden love of flowers ; 
 Ah, those that deck thy gardens 
 
 Are pale compared with ours. 
 When our wide woods and mighty lawns 
 
 Bloom to the April skies, 
 The earth has no more gorgeous sight 
 
 To show to human eyes. 
 In meadows red with blossoms, 
 
 All summer long, the bee 
 Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, 
 
 For thee, my love, and me. 
 
 Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens 
 
 Of ages long ago — 
 Our old oaks stream with mosses, 
 
 And sprout with mistletoe ; 
 And mighty vines, like serpents, climb 
 
 The giant sycamore ; 
 And trunks, overthrown for centuries. 
 
 Cumber the forest floor ; 
 And in the great savannas 
 
 The solitary mound. 
 Built by the elder world, o'erlooks 
 
 The loneliness around. 
 
 Come, thou hast not forgotten 
 Thy pledge and promise quite. 
 
 With many blushes murmured, 
 Beneath the evening light. 
 
SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 89 
 
 Come, the young violets crowd my door, 
 
 Thy earUest look to win, 
 And at my silent window-sill 
 
 The jessamine peeps in. 
 All day the red-bird warbles. 
 
 Upon the mulberry near, 
 And the night-sparrow trills her song, 
 
 All night, with none to hear. 
 
 SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 Our band is few, but true and tried, 
 
 Our leader frank and bold ; 
 The British soldier trembles 
 
 When Marion's name is told. 
 Our fortress is the good greenwood, 
 
 Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
 We know the forest round us. 
 
 As seamen know the sea. 
 We know its walls of thorny vines. 
 
 Its glades of reedy grass. 
 Its safe and silent islands 
 
 Within the dark morass. 
 
 Woe to the English soldiery 
 
 That little dread us near ! 
 On them shall light at midnight 
 
 A strange and sudden fear : 
 When waking to their tents on fire 
 
 They grasp their arms in vain, 
 And they who stand to face us 
 
 Are beat to earth again ; 
 
90 BRYANT'S POEMS, 
 
 And they who fly in terror deem 
 
 A mighty host behind, 
 And hear the tramp of thousands 
 
 Upon the hollow wind. 
 
 Then sweet the hour that brings release 
 
 From danger and from toil : 
 We talk the battle over, 
 
 And share the battle's spoil. 
 The woodland rings with laugh and shout. 
 
 As if a hunt were up. 
 And woodland flowers are gathered 
 
 To crown the soldier's cup. 
 With merry songs we mock the wind 
 
 That in the pine-top grieves. 
 And slumber long and sweetly, 
 
 On beds of oaken leaves. 
 
 Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
 
 The band that Marion leads — 
 The glitter of their rifles, 
 
 The scampering of their steeds. 
 'T is life our fiery barbs to guide 
 
 Across the moonlight plains ; 
 'T is life to feel the night-wind 
 
 That lifts their tossing manes. 
 A moment in the British camp — 
 
 A moment — and away 
 Back to the pathless forest, 
 
 Before the peep of day. 
 
 Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
 Grave men with hoary hairs, 
 
SONG. 91 
 
 Their hearts are all with Marion, 
 
 For Marion are their prayers. 
 And lovely ladies greet our band, 
 
 With kindliest welcoming, 
 With smiles like those of summer, 
 
 And tears like those of spring. 
 For them we wear these trusty arms, 
 
 And lay them down no more 
 Till we have driven the Briton, 
 
 Forever, from our shore. 
 
 SON-G. 
 
 Dost thou idly ask to hear 
 
 At what gentle seasons 
 Nymphs relent, when lovers near 
 
 Press the tenderest reasons ? 
 Ah, they give their faith too oft 
 
 To the careless wooer ; 
 Maidens' hearts are always soft ; 
 
 Would that men's were truer ! 
 
 Woo the fair one, when around 
 
 Early birds are singing ; 
 When, o'er all the fragrant ground, 
 
 Early herbs are springing : 
 When the brookside, bank, and grove, 
 
 All with blossoms laden, 
 Shine with beauty, breathe of love, — 
 
 Woo the timid maiden. 
 
92 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Woo her when, with rosy blush, 
 
 Summer eve is sinking ; 
 When, on rills that softly gush, 
 
 Stars are softly winking ; 
 When, through boughs that knit the bower. 
 
 Moonlight gleams are stealing ; 
 Woo her, till the gentle hour 
 
 Wake a gentler feeling. 
 
 Woo her, when autumnal dyes 
 
 Tinge the woody mountain ; 
 When the dropping foliage lies, 
 
 In the weedy fountain ; 
 Let the scene, that tells how fast 
 
 Youth is passing over. 
 Warn her, ere her bloom is past, 
 
 To secure her lover. 
 
 Woo her, when the north winds call 
 
 At the lattice nightly ; 
 When, within the cheerful hall, 
 
 Blaze the fagots brightly ; 
 While the wintry tempest round 
 
 Sweeps the landscape hoary 
 Sweeter in her ear shall sound 
 
 Love's delightful story. 
 
LOVE AND FOLLY. 93 
 
 LOVE AND FOLLY. 
 
 FROM LA FONTAINE. 
 
 Love's worshippers alone can know 
 
 The thousand mysteries that are his ; 
 His blazing torch, his twanging bow, 
 
 His blooming age are mysteries. 
 A charming science — but the day 
 
 Were all too short to con it o'er ; 
 So take of me this little lay, 
 
 A sample of its boundless lore. 
 
 As once, beneath the fragrant shade 
 
 Of myrtles breathing heaven's own air, 
 The children, Love and Folly, played — 
 
 A quarrel rose betwixt the pair. 
 Love said the gods should do him right — 
 
 But Follv vowed to do it then, 
 And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight. 
 
 So hard, he never saw again. 
 
 His lovely mother's grief was deep. 
 
 She called for vengeance on the deed ; 
 A beauty does not vainly weep, 
 
 Nor coldly does a mother plead, 
 A shade came o'er the eternal bliss 
 
 That fills the dwellers of the skies ; 
 Even stony-hearted Nemesis, 
 
 And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes. 
 
 *' Behold," she said, " this lovely boy," 
 While streamed afresh her graceful tears, 
 
94 . BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 " Immortal, yet shut out from joy 
 And sunshine, all his future years. 
 
 The child can never take, you see, 
 A single step without a staff — 
 
 The harshest punishment would be 
 Too lenient for the crime by half." 
 
 All said that Love had suffered wrong, 
 
 And well that wrong should be repaid ; 
 Then weighed the public interest long. 
 
 And long the party's interest weighed. 
 And thus decreed the court above — 
 
 " Since Love is blind from Folly's blow, 
 Let Folly be the guide of Love, 
 
 Where'er the boy may choose to go." 
 
 F ATI MA AND RADUAN. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 Diamante falso y fingido, 
 Engastado en pedernal, etc. 
 
 " False diamonds set in flint ! the caverns of the 
 
 mine 
 Are warmer than the breast that holds that faithless 
 
 heart of thine ; 
 Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the 
 
 wind. 
 And the restless ever-mounting-flame is not more 
 
 hard to bind. 
 If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few 
 
 would be, 
 
FA TIM A AND RADUAN. 95 
 
 To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown 
 
 to me. 
 Oh ! I could chide thee sharply — but every maiden 
 
 knows 
 That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he 
 
 goes. 
 
 " Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Granada's 
 
 maids, 
 Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and 
 
 fairest fades ; 
 And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed 
 
 to every one 
 That what thou didst to win my love, from love of 
 
 me was done. 
 Alas ! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, 
 They well might seek another mark to which thine 
 
 arrows go ; 
 But thou giv'st me little heed — for I speak to one 
 
 who knows 
 That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he 
 
 goes. 
 
 " It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and 
 
 bear 
 What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own 
 
 with care. 
 Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah ! 
 
 thou know'st I feel 
 That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of 
 
 steel. 
 'T was the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my 
 
 heart with pain ; 
 
96 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. 
 I would proclaim thee as thou art — but every maiden 
 
 knows 
 That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he 
 
 goes." 
 
 Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, 
 Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains 
 
 ran : 
 The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was, 
 He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus 
 
 his cause : 
 " Oh, lady, dry those star-like eyes — their dimness 
 
 does me wrong ; 
 If my heart be made of flint, at least \ will keep thy 
 
 image long : 
 Thou hast uttered cruel words — but I grieve the less 
 
 for those. 
 Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he 
 
 goes." 
 
 THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 'T is not with gilded sabres 
 That gleam in baldricks blue, 
 
 Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez, 
 Of gay and gaudy hue — 
 
 But, habited in mourning weeds, 
 Come marching from afar, 
 
THE DEATH OF ALIA TAR. 97 
 
 By four and four, the valiant men 
 
 Who fought with Aliatar. 
 All mournfully and slowly 
 
 The afflicted warriors come, 
 To the deep wail of the trumpet, 
 
 And beat of muffled drum. 
 
 The banner of the Phoenix, 
 
 The flag that loved the sky, 
 That scarce the wind dared wanton with, 
 
 It flew so proud and high — 
 Now leaves its place in battle-field, 
 
 And sweeps the ground in grief. 
 The bearer drags its glorious folds 
 
 Behind the fallen chief, 
 As mournfully and slowly 
 
 The afflicted warriors come. 
 To the deep wail of the trumpet, 
 
 And beat of muffled drum. 
 
 Brave Aliatar led forward 
 
 A hundred Moors to go 
 To where his brother held Motril 
 
 Against the leaguering foe. 
 On horseback went the gallant Moor, 
 
 That gallant band to lead ; 
 And now his bier is at the gate. 
 
 From whence he pricked his steed. 
 While mournfully and slowly 
 
 The afflicted warriors come, 
 To the deep wail of the trumpet, 
 
 And beat of muffled drum. 
 
98 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 The knights of the Grand Master 
 
 In crowded ambush lay ; 
 They rushed upon him where the reeds 
 
 Were thick beside the way ; 
 They smote the valiant Aliatar, 
 
 They smote him till he died, 
 And broken, but not beaten, were 
 
 The brave ones by his side. 
 Now mournfully and slowly 
 
 The afiflicted warriors come, 
 To the deep wail of the trumpet, 
 
 And beat of muffled drum. 
 
 Oh ! what was Zayda's sorrow, 
 
 How passionate her cries ! 
 • Her lover's wounds streamed not more free 
 
 Than that poor maiden's eyes. 
 Say, Love — for thou didst see her tears : 
 
 Oh, no! he drew more tight 
 The blinding fillet o'er his hds. 
 
 To spare his eyes the sight. 
 While mournfully and slowly 
 
 The afflicted warriors come, 
 To the deep wail of the trumpet, 
 
 And beat of muffled drum. 
 
 Nor Zayda weeps him only. 
 
 But all that dwell between 
 The great Alhambra's palace walls 
 
 And springs of Albaicin. 
 The ladies weep the flower of knights, 
 
 The brave the bravest here ; 
 
THE ALCA YDK OF MOLINA. 99 
 
 The people weep a champion, 
 
 The Alcaydes a noble peer. 
 While mournfully and slowly 
 
 The afflicted warriors come, 
 To the deep wail of the trumpet, 
 
 And beat of muffled drum. 
 
 THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, 
 
 The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold 
 brigade. 
 
 The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a 
 wound, 
 
 With many a Christian standard, and Christian cap- 
 tive bound. 
 
 He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and 
 vein, 
 
 And toward his lady's dwelling, he rode with slack- 
 ened rein ; 
 
 Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, 
 
 From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was 
 heard. 
 
 " Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to 
 the Moor, 
 
 '•Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop 
 before my door. 
 
 Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood, 
 
 That one in love with peace, should have loved a 
 man of blood ! 
 
lOO BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my 
 
 knight, 
 But that thy sword was dreaded in tourney and in 
 
 fight. 
 Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to 
 
 see 
 How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree. 
 Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the 
 
 fife 
 Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to 
 
 strife. 
 Say not my voice is magic — thy pleasure is to hear 
 The bursting of the carbine, the shivering of the 
 
 spear. 
 Well, follow thou thy choice — to the battle-field 
 
 away. 
 To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less 
 
 than they. 
 Thrust thy a^m into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked 
 
 brand, 
 And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears 
 
 in hand. 
 Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and 
 
 by mead. 
 On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border 
 
 steed. 
 Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away 
 
 their flocks. 
 From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks. 
 Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and 
 
 long. 
 And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost 
 
 wrong. 
 
FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS. loi 
 
 These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no 
 
 more thine own, 
 Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I 
 
 am all alone." 
 She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and 
 
 angry cheek. 
 Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could 
 
 speak. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS. 
 
 'T is sweet, in the green Spring, 
 To gaze upon the wakening fields around ; 
 
 Birds in the thicket sing, 
 Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground ; 
 
 A thousand odors rise, 
 Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes. 
 
 Shadowy, and close, and cool, 
 The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook ; 
 
 Forever fresh and full. 
 Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook ; 
 
 And the soft herbage seems 
 Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. 
 
 Thou, who alone art fair. 
 And whom alone I love, art far away. 
 
 Unless thy smile be there. 
 It makes me sad to see the earth so gay ; 
 
 I care not if the train 
 Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. 
 
1P2 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON. 
 
 Region of life and light ! 
 Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er ! 
 
 Nor frost nor heat may blight 
 
 Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, 
 Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore ! 
 
 There, without crook or sling, 
 Walks the Good Shepherd ; blossoms white and red 
 
 Round his meek temples cling ; 
 
 And, to sweet pastures led. 
 His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed. 
 
 He guides, and near him they 
 Follow delighted, for he makes them go 
 
 Where dwells eternal May, 
 
 And heavenly roses blow. 
 Deathless, and gathered but again to grow. 
 
 He leads them to the height 
 Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, 
 
 And fountains of delight ; 
 
 And where his feet have stood 
 Springs up, along the way, their tender food. 
 
 And when, in the mid skies, 
 The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, 
 
 Reposing as he lies, 
 
 With all his flock around. 
 He witches the still air with numerous sound. 
 
MARY MAGDALEN. 103 
 
 From his sweet lute flow forth 
 Immortal harmonies, of power to still 
 
 All passions born of earth, 
 
 And draw the ardent will 
 Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. 
 
 Might but a little part, 
 A wandering breath of that high melody, 
 
 Descend into my heart, 
 
 And change it till it be 
 Transformed and swallowed up, oh love ! in thee. 
 
 Ah ! then my soul should know. 
 Beloved ! where thou liest at noon of day, 
 
 And from this place of woe 
 
 Released, should take its way 
 To mingle with thy flock and never stray. 
 
 MARY MAGDALEN. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO 
 DE ARGENSOLA. 
 
 Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted ! 
 The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, 
 In wonder and in scorn ! 
 Thou weepest days of innocence departed ; 
 
 Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move 
 The Lord to pity and love. 
 
 The greatest of thy follies is forgiven. 
 
 Even for the least of all the tears that shine 
 On that pale cheek of thine. 
 
I04 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from 
 heaven, 
 Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise 
 Holy, and pure, and wise. 
 
 It is not much that to the fragrant blossom 
 The ragged brier should change ; the bitter fir 
 Distil Arabian myrrh ; 
 Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom. 
 
 The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain 
 Bear home the abundant grain. 
 
 But come and see the bleak and barren mountains 
 Thick to their top with roses ; come and see 
 Leaves on the dry dead tree : 
 The perished plant, set out by living fountains. 
 Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise. 
 Forever, toward the skies. 
 
 THE SIESTA. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 Vientecico murmurador, 
 Que lo gozas y andas todo, etc. 
 
 Airs, that wander and murmur round, 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow ! 
 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound. 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
FROM THE SPANISH. 105 
 
 Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, 
 Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er. 
 
 Sweet be her slumbers ! though in my breast 
 The pain she has waked may slumber no more. 
 
 Breathing soft from the blue profound, 
 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound. 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
 Airs ! that over the bending boughs. 
 And under the shadows of the leaves, 
 
 Murmur soft, like my timid vows 
 
 Or the secret sigh my bosom heaves, — 
 
 Gently sweeping the grassy ground, 
 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow. 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound, 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH 
 
 OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y Af^AYA. 
 
 Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave 
 
 The lovely vale that lies around thee. 
 
 Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve. 
 
 When but a fount the morning found thee? 
 
 Born when the skies began to glow, 
 
 Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters, 
 
 No blossom bowed its stalk to show 
 Where stole thy still and scanty waters. 
 
lo6 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Now on thy stream the moonbeams look, 
 Usurping, as thou downward driftest, 
 
 Its crystal from the clearest brook, 
 Its rushing current from the swiftest. 
 
 Ah ! what wild haste ! — and all to be 
 
 A river and expire in ocean. 
 Each fountain's tribute hurries thee 
 
 To that vast grave with quicker motion. 
 
 Far better 't were to linger still 
 
 In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, 
 And die in peace, an aged rill. 
 
 Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish. 
 
 THE COUNT OF GREIERS. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle 
 
 stands ; 
 He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain 
 
 lands ; 
 The horned crags are shining, and in the shade 
 
 between 
 A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green. 
 
 "Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to 
 
 thee ! 
 Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must 
 
 they be ! 
 
THE COUNT OF GREIERS. 107 
 
 I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art, 
 But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my 
 inmost heart." 
 
 He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear 
 A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing 
 
 near ; 
 They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance 
 
 across ; 
 The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and 
 
 ribbons toss. 
 
 The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of 
 
 spring. 
 She takes the young Count's fingers, and draws him 
 
 to the ring ; 
 They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain 
 
 flowers, 
 " And ho, young Count of Greiers ! this morning 
 
 thou art ours ! " 
 
 Then hand in hand departing, with dance and 
 
 roundelay. 
 Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count 
 
 away. 
 They dance through wood and meadow, they dance 
 
 across the linn. 
 Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music 
 
 in. 
 
 The second morn is risen, and now the third is come ; 
 Where stays the Count of Greiers ? has he forgot his 
 home ? 
 
lo8 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air, 
 There 's thunder on the mountains, the storm is 
 gathering there. 
 
 The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes 
 
 swollen down ; 
 You see it by the lightning — a river wide and brown. 
 Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and 
 
 roar. 
 Till, seizing on a willow, he swings him to the 
 
 shore. 
 
 " Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain 
 dell. 
 
 Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell. 
 
 Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the water- 
 spout, 
 
 While me alone the tempest overwhelmed and hurried 
 out. 
 
 " Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale 
 
 among the rocks ! 
 Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I 
 
 watched thy flocks ! 
 Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious 
 
 spot. 
 That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures 
 
 me not? 
 
 " Rose of the Alpine valley ! I feel, in every vein. 
 Thy soft touch on my fingers ; oh, press them not 
 again ! 
 
SONG. 109 
 
 Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward 
 track, 
 
 And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy mas- 
 ter back." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIAS. 
 
 Alexis calls me cruel ; 
 
 The rifted crags that hold 
 The gathered ice of winter. 
 
 He says, are not more cold. 
 
 When even the very blossoms 
 Around the fountain's brim. 
 
 And forest walks, can witness 
 The love I bear to him. 
 
 I would that I could utter 
 My feelings without shame ; 
 
 And tell him how I love him, 
 Nor wrong my virgin fame. 
 
 Alas ! to seize the moment 
 When heart inclines to heart, 
 
 And press a suit with passion, 
 Is not a woman's part. 
 
 If man comes not to gather 
 The roses where they stand, 
 
 They fade among their foliage ; 
 They cannot seek his hand. 
 
no BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF SEMEDO. 
 
 It is a fearful night ; a feeble glare 
 
 Streams from the sick moon in the overclouded 
 sky; 
 
 The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry, 
 Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare ; 
 No bark the madness of the waves will dare ; 
 
 The sailors sleep ; the winds are loud and high ; 
 
 Ah, peerless Laura ! for whose love I die, 
 Who gazes on thy smiles whik I despair? 
 
 As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried, 
 I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright, 
 
 A messenger of gladness, at my side : 
 To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light, 
 
 And as we furrowed Tago^s heaving tide, 
 I never saw so beautiful a night. 
 
 LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 The earth was sown with early flowers, 
 
 The heavens were blue and bright — 
 I met a youthful cavalier 
 
 As lovely as the light. 
 I knew him not — but in my heart 
 
 His graceful image lies, 
 And well I marked his open brow, 
 
 His sweet and tender eyes, 
 
THE LOVE OF GOD. m 
 
 His ruddy lips that ever smiled, 
 
 His glittering teeth betwixt, 
 And flowing robe embroidered o'er, 
 
 With leaves and blossoms mixed. 
 He wore a chaplet of the rose, 
 
 His palfrey, white and sleek, 
 Was marked with many an ebon spot. 
 
 And many a purple streak ; 
 Of jasper was his saddle-bow, 
 
 His housings sapphire stone, 
 And brightly in his stirrup glanced 
 
 The purple calcedon. 
 Fast rode the gallant cavalier. 
 
 As youthful horsemen ride ; 
 " Peyre Vidal ! know that I am Love." 
 
 The blooming stranger cried ; 
 " And this is Mercy by my side, 
 
 A dame of high degree ; 
 This maid is Chastity," he said, 
 
 " This squire is Loyalty." 
 
 THE LOVE OF GOD. 
 
 FROM THE PROVENCAL OF BERNARD RASCAS. 
 
 All things that are on earth shall wholly pass 
 away, 
 Except the love of God, which shall live and last 
 for ave. 
 
112 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 The forms of men shall be as they had never 
 
 been ; 
 The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and 
 
 tender green ; 
 The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant 
 
 song, 
 And the nightingale shall cease to chant the even- 
 ing long. 
 The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that 
 
 kills, 
 And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the 
 
 hills. 
 The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the 
 
 fox, 
 The wild-boar of the wood, and the chamois of the 
 
 rocks, 
 And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden 
 
 dust shall lie ; 
 And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, 
 
 shall die. 
 And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no 
 
 more. 
 And they shall bow to death, who ruled from 
 
 shore to shore ; 
 And the great globe itself (so the holy writings 
 
 tell), 
 With the rolling firmament, where the starry 
 
 armies dwell, 
 Shall melt with fervent heat — they shall all pass 
 
 away, 
 Except the love of God, which shall live and last 
 
 for aye. 
 
THE HURRICANE. 1 13 
 
 THE HURRICANE. 
 
 Lord of the winds ! I feel thee nigh, 
 I know thy breath in the burning sky ! 
 And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, 
 For the coming of the hurricane ! 
 
 And lo ! on the wing of the heavy gales, 
 Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails ; 
 Silent, and slow, and terribly strong. 
 The mighty shadow is borne along. 
 Like the dark eternity to come ; 
 While the world below, dismayed and dumb, 
 Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere 
 Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 
 
 They darken fast — and the golden blaze 
 Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze. 
 And he sends through the shade a funeral ray — 
 A glare that is neither night nor day, 
 A beam that touches, with hues of death, 
 The clouds above and the earth beneath. 
 To its covert glides the silent bird. 
 While the hurricane's distant voice is heard. 
 Uplifted among the mountains round. 
 And the forests hear and answer the sound. 
 
 He is come ! he is come ! do ye not behold 
 His ample robes on the wind unrolled ? 
 Giant of air ! we bid thee hail ! — 
 How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ; 
 How his huge and writhing arms are bent. 
 To clasp the zone of the firmament. 
 And fold, at length, in their dark embrace. 
 
114 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 From mountain to mountain the visible space. 
 
 Darker — still darker ! the whirlwinds bear 
 The dust of the plains to the middle air : 
 And hark to the crashing, long and loud. 
 Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud ! 
 You may trace its path by the flashes that start 
 From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, 
 As the fire-bolts leap to the world below. 
 And flood the skies with a lurid glow. 
 
 What roar is that? — ''t is the rain that breaks, 
 In torrents away from the airy lakes, 
 Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, 
 And shedding a nameless horror round, 
 Ah ! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, 
 With the very clouds ! — ye are lost to my eyes. 
 I seek ye vainly, and see in your place 
 The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, 
 A whirling ocean that fills the wall 
 Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. 
 And I, cut ofl'from the world, remain 
 Alone with the terrible hurricane. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 The stormy March is come at last, 
 With wind, and cloud, and changing skies ; 
 
 I hear the rushing of the blast. 
 
 That through the snowy valley flies. 
 
MARCH. IIS 
 
 Ah, passing few are they who speak, 
 Wild stormy month ! in praise of thee ; 
 
 Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, 
 Thou art a welcome month to me. 
 
 For thou, to northern lands again. 
 The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 
 
 And thou hast joined the gentle train 
 And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. 
 
 And, in thy reign of blast and storm. 
 Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, 
 
 When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
 And heaven puts on the blue of May. 
 
 Then sing aloud the gushing rills 
 
 And the full springs, from frost set free, 
 
 That, brightly leaping down the hills, 
 Are just set out to meet the sea. 
 
 The year's departing beauty hides 
 
 Of wintry storms, the sullen threat ; 
 But, in thy sternest frown abides 
 
 A look of kindly promise yet. 
 
 Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, 
 And that soft time of sunny showers. 
 
 When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
 Seems of a brighter world than ours. 
 
ii6 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 SPRING IN TOWN. 
 
 The country ever has a lagging Spring, 
 Waiting for May to call its violets forth, 
 
 And June its roses — showers and sunshine bring 
 Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth ; 
 
 To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, 
 
 And one by one the singing-birds come back. 
 
 Within the city's bounds the time of flowers 
 Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day. 
 
 Such as full often, for a few bright hours, 
 
 Breathes through the sky of March the airs of 
 May, 
 
 Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom — 
 
 And lo ! our borders glow with sudden bloom. 
 
 For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then 
 Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, 
 
 That overhung with blossoms, through its glen, 
 Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon. 
 
 And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers 
 
 Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 
 
 For here are eyes that shame the violet, 
 Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies. 
 
 And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set. 
 The anemones by forest fountains rise ; 
 
 And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak 
 
 Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. 
 
SPRING IN TOWN. 1 17 
 
 And thick about those lovely temples lie 
 
 Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled, 
 
 Thrice happy man ! whose trade it is to buy. 
 
 And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world ; 
 
 Who curls of every glossy color keepest, 
 
 And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest. 
 
 And well thou may'st — for Italy's brown maids 
 Send the dark locks with which their brows are 
 dressed, 
 
 And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids, 
 Crop half, to buy a ribbon for the rest ; 
 
 But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, 
 
 And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. 
 
 Then, henceforth, let no maid her matron grieve, 
 
 To see her locks of an unlovely hue, 
 Frowzy or thin, for liberal art shall give 
 
 Such piles of curls as nature never knew. 
 Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight 
 Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright. 
 
 Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, 
 Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye 
 
 Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling 
 feet 
 Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. 
 
 The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, 
 
 Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace. 
 
 No swimming Juno gait, of languor born. 
 Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace, 
 
II 8 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn, 
 
 A step that speaks the spirit of the place, 
 Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away 
 To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan Bay. 
 
 Ye that dash by in chariots ! who will care 
 For steeds or footmen now ? ye cannot show 
 
 Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, 
 And last edition of the shape ! Ah no. 
 
 These sights are for the earth and open sky. 
 
 And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. 
 
 SUMMER WIND. 
 
 It is a sultry day ; the sun has drunk 
 The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; 
 There is' no rustling in the lofty elm 
 That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
 Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint 
 And interrupted murmur of the bee, 
 Settling on the sick flowers, and then again 
 Instantly on the wing. The plants around 
 Feel the too potent fervors : the tall maize 
 Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover droops 
 Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 
 But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, 
 With all their growth of woods, silent and stern. 
 As if the scorching heat and dazzling light 
 Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, 
 Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven, — 
 
SUMMER WIND. 1 19 
 
 Their bases on the mountains — their white tops 
 
 Shining in the far ether — fire the air 
 
 With a reflected radiance, and make turn 
 
 The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie 
 
 Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf. 
 
 Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun. 
 
 Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind 
 
 That still delays its coming. Why so slow, 
 
 Gentle and voluble spirit of the air ? 
 
 Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth 
 
 Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves 
 
 He hears me ? See, on yonder woody ridge, 
 
 The pine is bending his proud top, and now 
 
 Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak 
 
 Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes ! 
 
 Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves ! 
 
 The deep distressful silence of the scene 
 
 Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds 
 
 And universal motion. He is come, 
 
 Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, 
 
 And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings 
 
 Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, 
 
 And sound of swaying branches, and the voice 
 
 Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs 
 
 Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers, 
 
 By the road-side and the borders of the brook. 
 
 Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves 
 
 Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew 
 
 Were on them yet, and silver waters break 
 
 Into small waves and sparkle as he comes. 
 
I20 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 AUTUMN WOODS. 
 
 Ere, in the northern gale, 
 The summer tresses of the trees are gone, 
 The woods of Autumn, all around our vale. 
 
 Have put their glory on. 
 
 The mountains that infold, 
 In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round 
 Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold. 
 
 That guard the enchanted ground. 
 
 I roam the woods that crown 
 The upland, where the mingled splendors glow. 
 Where the gay company of trees look down 
 
 On the green fields below. 
 
 My steps are not alone 
 In these bright walks ; the sweet south-west, at play, 
 Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown 
 
 Along the winding way. 
 
 And far in heaven, the while, 
 The sun, that sends that gale to wander here. 
 Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile, — 
 
 The sweetest of the year. 
 
 Where now the solemn shade, 
 Verdure and gloom where many branches meet \ 
 So grateful, when the noon of summer made 
 
 The valleys sick with heat ? 
 
AUTUMN WOODS. t2i 
 
 Let in through all the trees 
 Come the strange rays ; the forest depths are bright ; 
 Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, 
 
 Twinkles, like beams of light. 
 
 The rivulet, late unseen, 
 Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run. 
 Shines with the image of its golden screen, 
 
 And glimmerings of the sun. 
 
 But, 'neath yon crimson tree, 
 Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, 
 Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, 
 
 Her blush of maiden shame. 
 
 Oh, Autumn ! why so soon 
 Depart the hues that make thy forests glad ; 
 Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, 
 
 And leave thee wild and sad ? 
 
 Ah ! 't were a lot too blest 
 Forever in thy colored shades to stray ; 
 Amid the kisses of the soft south-west 
 
 To rove and dream for aye ; 
 
 And leave the vain low strife 
 That makes men mad — the tug for wealth and power. 
 The passions and the cares that wither life, 
 
 And waste its little hour. 
 
122 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 A WINTER PIECE. 
 
 The time has been that these wild solitudes, 
 Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me 
 Oftener than now ; and when the ills of life 
 Had chafed my spirit — when the unsteady pulse 
 Beat with strange flutterings — I would wander forth 
 And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path 
 Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills, 
 The quiet dells retiring far between, 
 With gentle invitation to explore 
 Their windings, were a calm society 
 That talked with me and soothed me. Then the 
 
 chant 
 Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress 
 Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget 
 The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began 
 To gather simples by the fountain's brink. 
 And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood 
 In Nature's loneliness, I was with one 
 With whom I early grew familiar, one 
 Who never had a frown for me, whose voice 
 Never rebuked me for the hours I stole 
 From cares I loved not, but of which the world 
 Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked 
 The bleak November winds, and smote the woods, 
 And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades. 
 That met above the merry rivulet, 
 Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still ; they 
 
 seemed 
 Like old companions in adversity. 
 Still there was beauty in my walks ; the brook, 
 
WINTER PIECE. 1 23 
 
 Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay 
 
 As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar, 
 
 The village with its spires, the path of streams, 
 
 And dim receding valleys, hid before 
 
 By interposing trees, lay visible 
 
 Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts 
 
 Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come 
 
 Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts, 
 
 Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, 
 
 And all was white. The pure keen air abroad. 
 
 Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard 
 
 Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee. 
 
 Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept 
 
 Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds, 
 
 That lay along the boughs, instinct with life. 
 
 Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring, 
 
 Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. 
 
 The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough, 
 
 And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent 
 
 Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry 
 
 A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves. 
 
 The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow 
 
 The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track 
 
 Of fox, and the raccoon's broad path were there. 
 
 Crossing each other. From his hollow tree. 
 
 The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts 
 
 Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway 
 
 Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold. 
 
 But Winter has yet brighter scenes, — he boasts 
 Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows ; 
 Or Autumn, with his many fruits, and woods 
 All flushed with manv hues. Come, when the rains 
 
124 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice ; 
 
 While the slant sun of February pours 
 
 Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! 
 
 The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, 
 
 And the broad arching portals of the grove 
 
 Welcome thy entering. Look ! the massy trunks 
 
 Are cased in the pure crystal ; each light spray, 
 
 Nodding and twinkling in the breath of heaven. 
 
 Is studded with its trembling water-drops, 
 
 That stream with rainbow radiance as they move. 
 
 But round the parent stem the long low boughs 
 
 Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide 
 
 The glassy floor. Oh ! you might deem the spot, 
 
 The spacious cavern of some virgin mine, 
 
 Deep in the womb of earth — where the gems grow. 
 
 And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud 
 
 With amethyst and topaz — and the place 
 
 Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam 
 
 That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall 
 
 Of faiiy palace, that outlasts the night. 
 
 And fades not in the glory of the sun ; — 
 
 Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts 
 
 And crossing arches ; and fantastic aisles 
 
 Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost 
 
 Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye. 
 
 Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault ; 
 
 There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud 
 
 Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams 
 
 Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose. 
 
 And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air 
 
 And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light ; 
 
 Light without shade. But all shall pass away 
 
WINTER PIECE. 125 
 
 With the next sun. From the numberless vast trunks, 
 Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound 
 Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve 
 Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont. 
 
 And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams 
 Are just set free, and milder suns melt off 
 The plashy snow, save only the firm drift 
 In the deep glen or the close shade of pines, — 
 'T is pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke 
 Roll up among the maples of the hill, 
 \yhere the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes 
 The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph. 
 That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops, 
 Falls, 'mid the golden brightness of the morn, 
 Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft. 
 Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe 
 Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air, 
 Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, 
 Such as you see in summer, and the winds 
 Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft, 
 Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone 
 The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye 
 Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at — 
 Startling the loiterer in the naked groves 
 With unexpected beauty, for the time 
 Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar. 
 And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft 
 Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds 
 Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth 
 Shall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hail, 
 And white like snow, and the loud North again 
 Shall buffet the vexed forests in his rage. 
 
126 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 ''OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS r 
 
 Oh fairest of the rural maids ! 
 Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 
 Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
 Were all that met thy infant eye. 
 
 Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, 
 Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 
 And all the beauty of the place 
 Is in thy heart and on thy face. 
 
 The twilight of the trees and rocks 
 Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
 Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
 Its playful way among the leaves. 
 
 Thy eyes are springs, in whose serene 
 And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
 Their lashes are the herbs that look 
 On their young figures in the brook. 
 
 The forest depths, by foot unpressed, 
 Are not more sinless than thy breast ; 
 The holy peace that fills the air 
 Of those calm solitudes is there. 
 
 THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR, 
 
 Gather him to his grave again 
 And solemnly and softly lay. 
 
 Beneath the verdure of the plain. 
 The warrior's scattered bones away. 
 
"Oh, fairest of the rural maids!" 
 
THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 127 
 
 Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, 
 The homage of man's heart to death ; 
 
 Nor dare to trifle with the mould 
 
 Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath. 
 
 The soul hath quickened every part — 
 
 That remnant of a martial brow. 
 Those ribs that held a mighty heart, 
 
 That strong arm — strong no longer now. 
 Spare them, each mouldering relic spare. 
 
 Of God's own image ; let them rest, 
 Till not a trace shall speak of where 
 
 The awful likeness was impressed. 
 
 For he was fresher from the hand 
 
 That formed of earth the human face. 
 And to the elements did stand 
 
 In nearer kindred than our race. 
 In many a flood to madness tossed, 
 
 In many a storm has been his path ; 
 He hid him not from heat or frost, 
 
 But met them, and defied their wrath. 
 
 Then they were kind — the forests here, 
 
 Rivers, and stiller waters paid 
 A tribute to the net and spear 
 
 Of the red ruler of the shade. 
 Fruits on the woodland branches lay. 
 
 Roots in the shaded soil below, 
 The stars looked forth to teach his way, 
 
 The still earth warned him of the foe. 
 
128 BRYANT'S POEMS, 
 
 A noble race ! but they are gone, 
 
 With their old forests wide and deep, 
 And we have built our homes upon 
 
 Fields where their generations sleep. 
 Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, 
 
 Upon their fields our harvest waves, 
 Our lovers woo beneath their moon — 
 
 Ah, let us spare, at least, their graves I 
 
 THE GREEK BOY. 
 
 Gone are the glorious Greeks of old. 
 
 Glorious in mien and mind ; 
 Their bones are mingled with the mould. 
 
 Their dust is on the wind ; 
 The forms they hewed from living stone. 
 Survive the waste of years, alone, 
 And, scattered with their ashes, show 
 What greatness perished long ago. 
 
 Yet fresh the myrtles there — the springs 
 
 Gush brightly as of yore ; 
 Flowers blossom from the dust of kings. 
 
 As many an age before. 
 There Nature moulds as nobly now, 
 As e'er of old, the human brow ; 
 And copies still the martial form 
 That braved Plataea's battle storm. 
 
 Boy ! thy first looks were taught to seek 
 Their Heaven in Hellas' skies ,• 
 
''UPON THE mountain:' 129 
 
 Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, 
 
 Her sunshine lit thine eyes ; 
 Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains 
 Heard by old poets, and thy veins 
 Swell with the blood of demigods, 
 That slumber in thy country's sods. 
 
 Now is thy nation free — though late — 
 
 Thy elder brethren broke — 
 Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight, 
 
 The intolerable yoke. 
 And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see 
 Her youth renewed in such as thee : 
 A shoot of that old vine that made 
 The nations silent in its shade. 
 
 upon the mountain's distant 
 head:' 
 
 Upon the mountain's distant head. 
 With trackless snows forever white. 
 
 Where all is still, and cold, and dead, 
 Late shines the day's departing light. 
 
 But far below those icy rocks, — ■ 
 
 The vales, in summer bloom arrayed, 
 
 Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks, 
 Are dim with mist and dark with shade. 
 
 'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts 
 And eyes where generous meanings burn, 
 
 Earliest the light of life departs. 
 But lingers with the cold and stern. 
 
130 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 SONNET— WILLIAM TELL. 
 
 Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, 
 Tell, of the iron heart ! they could not tame ; 
 For thou wert of the mountains ; they proclaim 
 
 The everlasting creed of liberty. 
 
 That creed is written on the untrampled snow, 
 Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, 
 Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold. 
 
 And breathed by winds that through the free 
 heaven blow. 
 
 Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around, 
 Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, 
 And to thy brief captivity was brought 
 
 A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 
 
 The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee 
 
 For the great work to set thy country free. 
 
 TO THE RIVER ARVE. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR 
 THE FOOT OF MONT BLANC. 
 
 Not from the sands or cloven rocks. 
 
 Thou rapid Arve ! thy waters flow ; 
 Nor earth within its bosom, locks 
 
 Thy dark unfathomed wells below. 
 Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream 
 
 Begins to move and murmur first 
 Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam. 
 
 Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. 
 
TO THE RIVER ARVE. 131 
 
 Born where the thunder and the blast, 
 
 And morning's earliest light are born, 
 Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast, 
 
 By these low homes, as if in scorn : 
 Yet humbler springs yield purer waves ; 
 
 And brighter, glassier streams than thine, 
 Sent up from earth's unlighted caves. 
 
 With heaven's own beam and image shine. 
 
 Yet stay ! for here are flowers and trees ; 
 
 Warm rays on cottage roofs are here, 
 And laugh of girls, and hum of bees — 
 
 Here linger till thy waves are clear. 
 Thou heedest not — thou hastest on ; 
 
 From steep to steep thy torrent falls. 
 Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, 
 
 It rests beneath Geneva's walls. 
 
 Rush on — but were there one with me 
 
 That loved me, I would light my hearth 
 Here, where with God's own majesty 
 
 Are touched the features of the earth. 
 By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, 
 
 Still rising as the tempests beat, 
 Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, 
 
 Among the blossoms at their feet. 
 
132 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO 
 A WOOD. 
 
 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 winged plunderer 
 
" WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERSr 133 
 
 That sucks its sweets. The massy 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, 
 
 Breathed 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 will let thee pass 
 
 Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace. 
 
 " WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERS 
 WITH DAYLIGHT'S YOUNG BEAM:' 
 
 When the firmament quivers with daylight's young 
 beam. 
 And the woodlands awaking burst into a hymn, 
 And the glow of the sky blazes back from the 
 stream, — 
 How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness 
 grow dim ! 
 
 Oh, 't is sad, in that moment of glory and song. 
 To see, while the hill-tops are waiting the sun, 
 
 The glittering band that kept watch all night long 
 O'er Love and o'er Slumber, go out one by one : 
 
134 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Till the circle of ether, deep, ruddy, and vast. 
 
 Scarce glimmers with one of the train that were 
 there ; 
 
 And their leader the day-star, the brightest and last, 
 Twinkles faintly and fades in that desert of air. 
 
 Thus, Oblivion, from midst of whose shadow we 
 came. 
 Steals o^er us again when life's twilight is gone ; 
 And the crowd of bright names, in the heaven of 
 fame, 
 Grow pale and are quenched as the years hasten 
 on. 
 
 Let them fade — but we '11 pray that the age, in 
 whose flight. 
 Of ourselves and our friends the remembrance 
 shall die. 
 May rise o'er the world, with the gladness and light 
 Of the dawn that effaces the stars from the sky. 
 
 A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE ^ 
 HUDSON. 
 
 Cool shades and dews are round my way. 
 
 And silence of the early day ; 
 
 'Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, 
 
 Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, 
 
 Unrippled, save by drops that fall 
 
 From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall ; 
 
 And o'er the clear still water swells 
 
 The music of the Sabbath bells. 
 
THE WEST WIND. 135 
 
 All, save this little nook of land 
 
 Circled with trees, on which I stand; 
 
 All, save that line of hills which lie 
 
 Suspended in the mimic sky — 
 
 Seems a blue void, above, below, 
 
 Through which the white clouds come and go ; 
 
 And from the green world's farthest steep 
 
 I gaze into the airy deep. 
 
 Loveliest of lovely things are they. 
 On earth, that soonest pass away. 
 The rose that lives its little hour. 
 Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. 
 Even love, long tried and cherished long, 
 Becomes more tender and more strong. 
 At thought of that insatiate grave 
 From which its yearnings cannot save. 
 
 River ! in this still hour thou hast 
 Too much of heaven on earth to last ; 
 Nor long may thy still waters lie, 
 An image of the glorious sky. 
 Thy fate and mine are not repose. 
 And, ere another evening close. 
 Thou to thy tides shalt turn again. 
 And I to seek the crowd of men. 
 
 THE WEST WIND. 
 
 Beneath the forest's skirts I rest. 
 
 Whose branching pines rise dark and high. 
 And hear the breezes of the West 
 
 Among the threaded foliage sigh. 
 
136 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Sweet Zephyr why that sound of woe ? 
 
 Is not thy home among the flowers ? 
 Do not the bright June roses blow, 
 
 To meet thy kiss at morning hours ? 
 
 And lo ! thy glorious realm outspread — 
 Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, 
 
 And yon free hill-tops, o^er whose head 
 The loose white clouds are borne away. 
 
 And there the full broad river runs. 
 
 And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, 
 
 To cool thee when the midday suns 
 
 Have made thee faint beneath their heat. 
 
 Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love ; 
 
 Spirit of the new wakened year ! 
 The sun in his blue realm above 
 
 Smooths a bright path when thou art here. 
 
 In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, 
 The wooing ring-dove in the shade ; 
 
 On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird 
 Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. 
 
 Ah ! thou art like our wayward race ; — 
 
 When not a shade of pain or ill 
 Dims the bright smile of Nature's face, 
 
 Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still. 
 
TO A MOSQUITO. I37 
 
 TO A MOSQUITO. 
 
 Fair insect ! that, with threadlike legs spread out, 
 And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing. 
 
 Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about. 
 In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, 
 
 And tell how little our large veins should bleed, 
 
 Would we but yield them to thy bitter need. 
 
 Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse. 
 Full angrily, men hearken to thy plaint, 
 
 Thou gettest many a brush, and many a curse, 
 
 For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and 
 faint : 
 
 Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, 
 
 Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could. 
 
 I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween. 
 Has not the honor of so proud a birth. 
 
 Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green. 
 The offspring of the gods, though born on earth ; 
 
 For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she. 
 
 The ocean nymph, that nursed thy infancy. 
 
 Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, 
 
 And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew 
 strong. 
 
 Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung. 
 Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along : 
 
 The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, 
 
 And danced and shone beneath, the billowy bay. 
 
13S BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And calm, afar, the city spires arose, — 
 
 Thence didst thou hear the distant hum of men, 
 
 And as its grateful odors met thy nose, 
 
 Didst seem to smell thy native marsh again ; 
 
 Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight 
 
 Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. 
 
 At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway — 
 
 Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks 
 kissed 
 By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray 
 
 Shone through the snowy veils like stars through 
 mist; 
 And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, 
 Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent 
 skin. 
 
 Oh, these were sights to touch an anchorite ! 
 
 What ! do I hear thy slender voice complain ? 
 Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light, 
 
 As if it brought the memory of pain : 
 Thou art a wayward being — well — come near, 
 And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear. 
 
 What say'st thou — slanderer! — rouge makes thee 
 sick? 
 
 And China bloom at best is sorry food ? 
 And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, 
 
 Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood? 
 Go ! 't was a just reward that met thy crime — 
 But shun the sacrilege another time. 
 
TO A MOSQUITO. 139 
 
 That bloom was made to look at, not to touch. 
 To worship, not approach, that radiant white ; 
 
 And well might sudden vengeance light on such 
 As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. 
 
 Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired, 
 
 Murmured thy adoration and retired. 
 
 Thou 'rt welcome to the town — but why come here 
 To bleed a brother poet gaunt like thee ? 
 
 Alas ! the little blood I have is dear, 
 
 And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. 
 
 Look round — the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, 
 
 Thy old acquaintance. Song and Famine, dwell. 
 
 Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood 
 Enriched by generous wine and costly meat ; 
 
 On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud. 
 Fix thy light pump and press thy freckled feet : 
 
 Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls. 
 
 The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls. 
 
 There corks are drawn y and the red vintage flows 
 To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now 
 
 The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose 
 Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the 
 brow ; 
 
 And, when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, 
 
 No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings. 
 
I40 BRYANT^S POEMS. 
 
 *'/ broke the spell that held me 
 long:' 
 
 I BROKE the spell that held me long, 
 
 The dear, dear witchery of song. 
 
 I said, the poef s idle lore 
 
 Shall waste my prime of years no more, 
 
 For Poetry, though heavenly born. 
 
 Consorts with poverty and scorn. 
 
 I broke the spell — nor deemed its power 
 
 Could fetter me another hour. 
 
 Ah, thoughtless ! how could I forget 
 
 Its causes were around me yet ? 
 
 For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, 
 
 Was Nature's everlasting smile. 
 
 Still came and lingered on my sight 
 
 Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, 
 
 And glory of the stars and sun ; — 
 
 And these and poetry are one. 
 
 They, ere the world had held me long. 
 
 Recalled me to the love of song. 
 
 THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND 
 VENUS. 
 
 I WOULD not always reason. The straight path 
 Wearies us with its never- varying lines, 
 And we grow melancholy. I would make 
 Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit 
 
JUPITER AND VENUS. 141 
 
 Patiently by the wayside, while I traced 
 
 The mazes of the pleasant wilderness 
 
 Around me. She should be my counsellor, 
 
 But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs 
 
 Impulses from a deeper source than hers, 
 
 And there are motions, in the mind of man, 
 
 That she must look upon with awe. I bow 
 
 Reverently to her dictates, but not less 
 
 Hold to the fair illusions of old time — 
 
 Illusions that shed brightness over life, 
 
 And glory over nature. Look, even now. 
 
 Where two bright planets in the twilight meet, 
 
 Upon the saffron heaven, — the imperial star 
 
 Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn 
 
 Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe, 
 
 Awhile, that they are met for ends of good. 
 
 Amid the evening glory, to confer 
 
 Of men and their aifairs, and to shed down 
 
 Kind influence. Lo ! their orbs burn more bright, 
 
 And shake out softer fires ! The great earth feels 
 
 The gladness and the quiet of the time. 
 
 Meekly the mighty river, that infolds 
 
 This mighty city, smooths his front, and far 
 
 Glitters and burns even to the rocky base 
 
 Of the dark heights that bound him to the West ; 
 
 And a deep murmur, from the many streets, 
 
 Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence 
 
 Dark and sad thoughts awhile — there 's time for 
 
 them 
 Hereafter — on the morrow we will meet, 
 With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs. 
 And make each other wretched ; this calm hour, 
 
142 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 This balmy, blessed evening, we will give 
 To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days, 
 Born of the meeting of those glorious stars. 
 
 Enough of drought has parched the year, and 
 scared 
 The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet. 
 Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits. 
 The dog-star shall shine harmless ; genial days 
 Shall softly glide away into the keen 
 And wholesome cold of winter ; he that fears 
 The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams, 
 And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air. 
 
 Emblems of power and beauty ! well may they 
 Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw 
 Toward the great Pacific, marking out 
 The path of empire. Thus, in our own land, 
 Erelong, the better Genius of our race. 
 Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes. 
 Shall sit him down beneath the farthest West, 
 By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back 
 On realms made happy. 
 
 Light the nuptial torch, 
 And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits 
 The youth and maiden. Happy days to them 
 That wed this evening ! — a long life of love. 
 And blooming sons and daughters ! Happy they 
 Born at this hour, — for they shall see an age 
 Whiter and holier than the past, and go 
 Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts, 
 
JUPITER AND VENUS. 143 
 
 And shudder at the butcheries of war, 
 As now at other murders. 
 
 Hapless Greece ! 
 Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained 
 Thy rivers ; deep enough thy chains have worn 
 Their links into thy flesh ; the sacrifice 
 Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes. 
 And reverend priests, has expiated all 
 Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights 
 There is an omen of good days for thee. 
 Thou shalt arise from 'midst the dust and sit 
 Again among the nations. Thine own arm 
 Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine 
 The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings, — 
 Despot with despot battling for a throne, — 
 And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms, 
 Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall 
 Upon each other, and in all their bounds 
 The wailing of the childless shall not cease. 
 Thine is a war for liberty, and thou 
 Must fight it single-handed. The old world 
 Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race. 
 And leaves thee to the struggle ; and the new, — 
 I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale 
 Of fraud and lust of gain ; — thy treasury drained, 
 And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs 
 Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand. 
 And God and thy good sword shall yet work out, 
 For thee, a terrible deliverance. 
 
144 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 I GAZED upon the glorious sky 
 
 And the green mountains round ; 
 And thought, that when I came to lie 
 
 Within the silent ground, 
 'T were pleasant, that in flowery June, 
 When brooks sent up a cheerful tune, 
 
 And groves a joyous sound, 
 The sexton's hand, my grave to make. 
 The rich, green mountain turf should break. 
 
 A cell within the frozen mould, 
 
 A coffin borne through sleet. 
 And icy clods above it rolled, 
 
 While fierce the tempests beat — 
 Away ! — I will not think of these — 
 Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 
 
 Earth green beneath the feet. 
 And be the damp mould gently pressed 
 Into my narrow place of rest. 
 
 There, through the long, long summer hours 
 
 The golden light should lie, 
 And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 
 
 Stand in their beauty by. 
 The oriole should build and tell 
 His love-tale, close beside my cell ; 
 
 The idle butterfly 
 Should rest him there, and there be heard 
 The housewife bee and humming-bird. 
 
JUNE. 145 
 
 And what if cheerful shouts, at noon, 
 
 Come from the village sent, 
 Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, 
 
 With fairy laughter blent? 
 And what if, in the evening light, 
 Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
 
 Of my low monument? 
 I would the lovely scene around 
 Might know no sadder sight or sound. 
 
 I know, I know I should not see 
 
 The season's glorious show, 
 Nor would its brightness shine for me, 
 
 Nor its wild music flow ; 
 But if, around my place of sleep. 
 The friends I love should come to weep. 
 
 They might not haste to go. 
 Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom. 
 Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 
 
 These to their softened hearts should bear 
 
 The thought of what has been. 
 And speak of one who cannot share 
 
 The gladness of the scene ; 
 Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 
 The circuit of the summer hills. 
 
 Is — that his grave is green ; 
 And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
 To hear, again, his living voice. 
 
146 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 THE TWO GRAVES. 
 
 'T IS a bleak wild hill, — but green and bright 
 In the summer warmth, and the midday light ; 
 There 's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the 
 
 wren, 
 And the dash of the brook from the alder glen ; 
 There 's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, 
 And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock. 
 And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath — 
 There is nothing here that speaks of death. 
 
 Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie, 
 And dwellings cluster, 't is there men die. 
 They are born, they die, and are buried near, 
 Where the populous graveyard lightens the bier ; 
 For strict and close are the ties that bind 
 In death, the children of human kind ; 
 Yea, stricter and closer than those of life, — 
 iT is a neighborhood that knows no strife. 
 They are noiselessly gathered — friend and foe — 
 To the still and dark assemblies below : 
 Without a frown or a smile they meet. 
 Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet ; 
 In that sullen home of peace and gloom. 
 Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room. 
 
 Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, 
 Two humble graves, — but I meet them not. 
 I have seen them, — eighteen years are past. 
 Since I found their place in the brambles last, — 
 
THE TWO GRAVES. HT 
 
 The place where, fifty winters ago, 
 
 An aged man in his locks of snow. 
 
 And an aged matron, withered with years, 
 
 Were solemnly laid, — but not with tears. 
 
 For none who sat by the light of their hearth, 
 
 Beheld their coffins covered with earth ; 
 
 Their kindred were far, and their children dead, 
 
 When the funeral prayer was coldly said. 
 
 Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones. 
 Rose over the place that held their bones ; 
 But the grassy hillocks are levelled again, 
 And the keenest eye might search in vain, 
 'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep. 
 For the spot where the aged couple sleep. 
 
 Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil 
 Of this lonely spot, that man of toil. 
 And trench the strong hard mould with the spade, 
 Where never before a grave was made ; 
 For he hewed the dark old woods away. 
 And gave the virgin fields to the day, — 
 And the gourd and the bean, beside his door. 
 Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened before : 
 And the maize stood up, and the bearded rye 
 Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky. 
 
 ^T is said that when life is ended here, 
 The spirit is borne to a distant sphere ; 
 That it visits its earthly home no more. 
 Nor looks on the haunts it loved before. 
 But why should the bodiless soul be sant 
 
148 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Far off, to a long, long banishment? 
 
 Talk not of the light and the living green ! 
 
 It will pine for the dear familiar scene ; 
 
 It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to behold 
 
 The rock and the stream it knew of old. 
 
 'T is a cruel creed, believe it not ! 
 Death to the good is a milder lot. 
 They are here, — they are here, — that harmless pair, 
 In the yellow sunshine and flowing air, 
 In the light cloud-shadows, that slowly pass. 
 In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass. 
 They sit where their humble cottage stood. 
 They walk by the waving edge of the wood. 
 And list to the long accustomed flow 
 Of the brook that wets the rocks below. 
 Patient, and peaceful, and passionless, 
 As seasons on seasons swiftly press, 
 They watch, and wait, and linger around, 
 Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground. 
 
 THE NEW MOON. 
 
 When, as the garish day is done, 
 Heaven burns with the descended sun, 
 
 'T is passing sweet to mark, 
 Amid that flush of crimson light. 
 The new moon's modest bow grow bright, 
 
 As earth and sky grow dark. 
 
THE NEW MOON. 149 
 
 Few are the hearts too cold to feel 
 A thrill of gladness o'er them steal. 
 
 When first the wandering eye 
 Sees faintly, in the evening blaze. 
 That glimmering curve of tender rays 
 
 Just planted in the sky. 
 
 The sight of that young crescent brings 
 Thoughts of all fair and youthful things — > 
 
 The hopes of early years ; 
 And childhood's purity and grace, 
 And joys that like a rainbow chase 
 
 The passing shower of tears. 
 
 The captive yields him to the dream 
 Of freedom, when that virgin beam 
 
 Comes out upon the air ; 
 And painfully the sick man tries 
 To fix his dim and burning eyes 
 
 On the soft promise there. 
 
 Most welcome to the lover's sight, 
 Glitters that pure, emerging light ; 
 
 For prattling poets say 
 That sweetest is the lovers' walk, 
 And tenderest is their murmured talk, 
 
 Beneath its gentle ray. 
 
 And there do graver men behold 
 A type of errors, loved of old, 
 
 Forsaken and forgiven ; 
 And thoughts and wishes not of earth, 
 Just opening in their early birth. 
 
 Like that new light in heaven. 
 
150 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 
 
 Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 
 When our mother Nature laughs around ; 
 
 When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 
 
 And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? 
 
 There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, 
 And the gossip of swallows through all the sky ; 
 
 The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, 
 And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 
 
 The clouds are at play in the azure space. 
 
 And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, 
 
 And here they stretch to the frolic chase. 
 And there they roll on the easy gale. 
 
 There 's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, 
 There 's a titter of winds in that beechen tree. 
 
 There 's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower. 
 And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 
 
 And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
 On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, 
 
 On the leaping waters and gay young isles ; 
 Ay, look, and he '11 smile thy gloom away. 
 
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 15 1 
 
 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 
 
 Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
 And colored with the heaven's own blue, 
 That openest, when the quiet light 
 Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 
 
 Thou comest not when violets lean 
 O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
 Or columbines, in purple dressed, 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 
 
 Thou waitest late, and com'st alone. 
 When woods are bare and birds are flown. 
 And frosts and shortening days portend 
 The aged year is near his end. 
 
 Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
 Look through its fringes to the sky. 
 Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
 A flower from its cerulean wall. 
 
 I would that thus, when I shall see 
 The hour of death draw near to me, 
 Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
 May look to heaven as I depart. 
 
152 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 ''tnnocent child and snow-white 
 flower:' 
 
 Innocent child and snow-white flower ! 
 Well are ye paired in your opening hour. 
 Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, 
 Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet. 
 
 White as those leaves, just blown apart, 
 Are the folds of thy own young heart ; 
 Guilty passion and cankering care 
 Never have left their traces there. 
 
 Artless one ! though thou gazest now 
 O'er the white blossom with earnest brow. 
 Soon will it tire thy childish eye. 
 Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. 
 
 Throw it aside in thy weary hour. 
 Throw to the ground the fair white flower. 
 Yet, as thy tender years depart. 
 Keep that white and innocent heart. 
 
 SONNET— MIDSUMMER. 
 
 A POWER is on the earth and in the air, 
 From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid. 
 And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade. 
 
 From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. 
 
"Innocent child and snow-Avhite flower!" 
 
SONNET— OCTOBER. 153 
 
 Look forth upon the earth — her thousand plants 
 Are smittten, even the dark sun-loving maize 
 Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze ; 
 
 The herd beside the shaded fountain pants ; 
 
 For life is driven from all the landscape brown ; 
 The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, 
 The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men 
 
 Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town ; 
 As if the Day of Fire had dawned and set 
 Its deadly breath into the firmament. 
 
 SONNET— OCTOBER. 
 
 Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath ! 
 When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf. 
 And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, 
 
 And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 
 
 Wind of the sunny south ! oh, still delay 
 In the gay woods and in the golden air, 
 Like to a good old age released from care. 
 
 Journeying, in long serenity, away. 
 
 In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 
 
 Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and 
 
 brooks, 
 And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks. 
 
 And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 
 
 And when my last sand twinkled in the glass. 
 Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 
 
154 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 SONNET— NO VEMBER. 
 
 Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun ! 
 
 One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, 
 Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run. 
 
 Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. 
 One smile on the brown hills and naked trees. 
 
 And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are 
 cast, 
 And the blue Gentian flower, that, in the breeze, 
 
 Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. 
 Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee 
 
 Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, 
 The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, 
 
 And man delight to linger in thy ray. 
 Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear 
 The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened 
 air. 
 
 A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. 
 
 Decolor, obscurus, vilis, non ille repexam 
 Caesariem regum, non Candida virginis ornat 
 Colla, nee insigni splendet per cingula morsu. 
 Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi, 
 Tunc superat pulchros cultus et quicquid Eois 
 Indus litoribus rubra scrutatur in alga. 
 
 Claudian. 
 
 I SAT beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped 
 
 With Newport coal, and as the flame grew 
 bright — 
 
A MEDITATION ON R.I COAL. 155 
 
 The many-colored flame — and played and leaped, 
 
 I thought of rainbows and the northern light, 
 Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, 
 And other brilliant matters of the sort. 
 
 And last I thought of that fair isle which sent 
 . The mineral fuel ; on a summer day 
 I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, 
 
 And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way ; 
 Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone — 
 A rugged road through rugged Tiverton. 
 
 And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew 
 
 The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought. 
 
 Where will this dreary passage lead me to ? — 
 This long, dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot? 
 
 I looked to see it dive in earth outright ; 
 
 I looked — but saw a far more welcome sight. 
 
 Like a soft mist upon the evening shore. 
 
 At once a lovely isle before me lay ; 
 Smooth, and with tender verdure covered o'er. 
 
 As if just risen from its calm inland bay; 
 Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge. 
 And the small waves that dallied with the sedgfe. 
 
 The barley was just reaped — its heavy sheaves 
 Lay on the stubble field — the tall maize stood 
 
 Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves — 
 And bright the sunlight played on the young 
 wood — 
 
 For fifty years ago, the old men say, 
 
 The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. 
 
156 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 I saw where fountains freshened the green land, 
 And where the pleasant road, from door to door. 
 
 With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, 
 Went wandering all that fertile region o'er — 
 
 Rogue's Island once — but, when the rogues were 
 dead, 
 
 Rhode Island was the name it took instead. 
 
 Beautiful island ! then it only seemed 
 A lovely stranger — it has grown a friend. 
 
 I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed 
 How soon that bright beneficent isle would send 
 
 The treasures of its womb across the sea. 
 
 To warm a poefs room and boil his tea. 
 
 Dark anthracite ! that reddenest on my hearth. 
 Thou in those island mines didst slumber long ; 
 
 But now thou art come forth to move the earth. 
 And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong. 
 
 Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, 
 
 And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. 
 
 Yea, they did wrong thee foully — they who mocked 
 Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn ; 
 
 Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, 
 
 And grew profane — and swore, in bitter scorn. 
 
 That men might to thy inner caves retire. 
 
 And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire. 
 
 Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, 
 
 That I too have seen greatness — even I — 
 Shook hands with Adams — stared at La Fayette, 
 
A MEDITATION ON R. L COAL. 157 
 
 When, bareheaded, in the hot noon of July, 
 He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him, 
 From which three cheers burst from the mob before 
 him. 
 
 And I have seen — not many months ago — 
 
 An eastern Governor in chapeau bras 
 And military coat, a glorious show ! 
 
 Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah ! 
 How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan ! 
 How many hands were shook and votes were won ! 
 
 'T was a great Governor — thou too shalt be 
 
 Great in thy turn — and wide shall spread thy 
 fame, 
 
 And swiftly ; farthest Maine shall hear of thee. 
 And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name, 
 
 And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle 
 
 That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. 
 
 For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat 
 The hissing rivers into steam, and drive 
 
 Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet. 
 Walking their steady way, as if alive, 
 
 Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee. 
 
 And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee. 
 
 Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea. 
 Like its own monsters — boats that for a guinea, 
 
 Will take a man to Havre — and shalt be 
 The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny. 
 
 And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear 
 
 As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor. 
 
158 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Then we will laugh at winter when we hear 
 The grim old churl about our dwellings rave : 
 
 Thou, from that " ruler of the inverted year,^' 
 Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, 
 
 And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, 
 
 And melt the icicles from off his chin. 
 
 AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF 
 HIS FATHERS. 
 
 It is the spot I came to seek, — 
 
 My fathers' ancient burial-place, 
 Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, 
 
 Withdrew our wasted race. 
 It is the spot, — I know it well — 
 Of which our old traditions tell. 
 
 For here the upland bank sends out 
 
 A ridge toward the river-side ; 
 I know the shaggy hills about, 
 
 The meadows smooth and wide, 
 The plains, that, toward the southern sky, 
 Fenced east and west by mountains lie. 
 
 A white man, gazing on the scene. 
 Would say a lovely spot was here. 
 
 And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, 
 Between the hills so sheer, 
 
 I like it not — I would the plain 
 
 Lay in its tall old groves again. 
 
AN INDIAN BURIAL-PLACE. 159 
 
 The sheep are on the slopes around, 
 
 The cattle in the meadows feed, 
 And laborers turn the crumbling ground, 
 
 Or drop the yellow seed, 
 And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, 
 Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way. 
 
 Methinks it were a nobler sight 
 
 To see these vales in woods arrayed, 
 
 Their summits in the golden light, 
 Their trunks in grateful shade. 
 
 And herds of deer, that bounding go 
 
 O'er rills and prostrate trees below. 
 
 And then to mark the lord of all. 
 
 The forest hero, trained to wars, 
 Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, 
 
 And seamed with glorious scars. 
 Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare 
 The wolf, and grapple with the bear. 
 
 This bank, in which the dead were laid, 
 Was sacred when its soil was ours ; 
 
 Hither the artless Indian maid 
 
 Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, 
 
 And the gray chief and gifted seer 
 
 Worshipped the god of thunders here. 
 
 But now the wheat is green and high 
 On clods that hid the warrior's breast. 
 
 And scattered in the furrows lie ' 
 
 The weapons of his rest. 
 
 And there, in the loose sand, is thrown 
 
 Of his large arm the mouldering bone. 
 
i6o BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Ah, little thought the strong and brave, 
 Who bore the lifeless chieftain forth ; 
 
 Or the young wife, that weeping gave 
 Her first-born to the earth, 
 
 That the pale race, who waste us now, 
 
 Among their bones should guide the plough. 
 
 They waste us — ay — like April snow 
 In the warm noon, we shrink away ; 
 
 And fast they follow, as we go 
 Towards the setting day, — 
 
 Till they shall fill the land, and we 
 
 Are driven into the western sea. 
 
 But I behold a fearful sign, 
 
 To which the white men's eyes are blind ; 
 Their race may vanish hence, like mine, 
 
 And leave no trace behind, 
 Save ruins o'er the region spread, 
 And the white stones above the dead. 
 
 Before these fields were shorn and tilled, 
 Full to the brim our rivers flowed ; 
 
 The melody of waters filled 
 
 The fresh and boundless wood ; 
 
 And torrents dashed and rivulets played. 
 
 And fountains spouted in the shade. 
 
 Those grateful sounds are heard no more, 
 The springs are silent in the sun. 
 
 The rivers, by the blackened shore. 
 With lessening current run ; 
 
 The realm our tribes are crushed to get 
 
 May be a barren desert yet. 
 
SONNET— TO COLE, THE PAINTER. i6i 
 
 SONNET— TO COLE, THE PAINTER, 
 DEPARTING FOR EUROPE. 
 
 Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies : 
 Yet, Cole ! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand 
 A living image of thy native land, 
 
 Such as on thy glorious canvas lies. 
 
 Lone lakes — savannas where the bison roves — 
 
 Rocks rich with summer garlands — solemn 
 
 streams — 
 
 Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and 
 screams, — 
 
 Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves. 
 
 Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest — fair. 
 But different — everywhere the trace of men, 
 Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen 
 
 To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air. 
 Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, 
 But keep that earlier, wilder image bright. 
 
 GREEN RIVER. 
 
 When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
 I steal an hour from study and care. 
 And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
 Where wanders the stream with waters of green 
 As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink, 
 Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
 And they, whose meadows it murmurs through. 
 Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 
 
1 62 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 
 With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, 
 And clear the depths where its eddies play, 
 And dimples deepen and whirl away, 
 And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 
 The swifter current that mines its root, 
 Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, 
 The quivering glimmer of sun and rill. 
 With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 
 Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone. 
 Oh, loveliest there the spring days come. 
 With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum ; 
 The flowers of summer are fairest there, 
 And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 
 And sweetest the golden autumn day 
 In silence and sunshine glides away. 
 
 Yet fair as thou ait, thou shun'st to glide, 
 Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 
 But windest away from haunts of men, 
 To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 
 And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill. 
 Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 
 Lonely — save when, by thy rippling tides. 
 From thicket to thicket the angler glides ; 
 Or the simpler comes with basket and book. 
 For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
 Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me. 
 To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 
 Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
 On the river cherry and seedy reed. 
 And thy own wild music gushing out 
 
- GREEN RIVER. 163 
 
 With mellow murmur and fairy shout, 
 From dawn to the blush of another day, 
 Like traveller singing along his way. 
 
 That fairy music I never hear, 
 Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
 And mark them winding away from sight, 
 Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 
 While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, 
 And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings. 
 But I wish that fate had left me free 
 To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
 Till the eating cares of earth should depart. 
 And the peace of the scene pass into my heart ; 
 But I envy thy stream, as it glides along, 
 Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 
 
 Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, 
 And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 
 And mingle among the jostling crowd. 
 Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 
 I often come to this quiet place. 
 To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, 
 And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 
 For in thy lonely and lovely stream, 
 An image of that calm life appears, 
 That won my heart in my greener years. 
 
164 BRYANT'S poems! 
 
 TO A CLOUD. 
 
 Beautiful cloud ! with folds so soft and fair, 
 
 Swimming in the pure quiet air ! 
 
 Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below 
 
 Thy shadow o"er the vale moves slow ; 
 
 Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train 
 
 As cool it comes along the grain. 
 
 Beautiful cloud ! I would I were with thee 
 
 In thy calm way o'er land and sea : 
 
 To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look 
 
 On Earth as on an open book ; 
 
 On streams that tie her realms with silver bands, 
 
 And the long ways that seam her lands ; 
 
 And hear her humming cities, and the sound 
 
 Of the great ocean breaking round. 
 
 Ay — I would sail upon thy air-borne car 
 
 To blooming regions distant far. 
 
 To where the sun of Andalusia shines 
 
 On his own olive-groves and vines, 
 
 Or the soft lights of Italy''s bright sky 
 
 In smiles upon her ruins lie. 
 
 But I would woo the winds to let us rest 
 
 O^'er Greece long fettered and oppressed, 
 
 Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes 
 
 From the old battlefields and tombs, 
 
 And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe 
 
 Have dealt the swift and desperate blow, 
 
 And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke 
 
 Has touched its chains, and they are broke. 
 
AFTER A TEMPEST. 165 
 
 Ay, we would linger till the sunset there 
 Should come, to purple all the air. 
 And thou reflect upon the sacred ground 
 The ruddy radiance streaming round. 
 
 Bright meteor ! for the summer noontide made ! 
 
 Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade. 
 
 The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold. 
 
 Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold : 
 
 The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou may'st frown 
 
 In the dark heaven when storms come down. 
 
 And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye 
 
 Miss thee, forever, from the sky. 
 
 AFTER A TEMPEST. 
 
 The day had been a day of wind and storm ; — 
 
 The wind was laid, the storm was over-past, — 
 And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm 
 
 Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. 
 
 I stood upon the upland slope, and cast 
 My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, 
 
 Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast. 
 And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, 
 With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between. 
 
 The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, 
 
 Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, 
 
 Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, 
 Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; 
 For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard 
 
1 66 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung 
 And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward ; 
 To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, 
 And chirping from the ground the grasshopper up- 
 sprung. 
 
 And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry 
 
 Flew many a glittering insect here and there. 
 And darted up and down the butterfly. 
 
 That seemed a living blossom of the air. 
 
 The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
 The violent rain had pent them ; in the way 
 
 Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair ; 
 The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay. 
 And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. 
 
 It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, 
 
 Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
 Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, 
 
 And precipice upspringing like a wall. 
 
 And glassy river and white waterfall. 
 And happy living things that trod the bright 
 
 And beauteous scene ; while far beyond them all, 
 On many a lovely valley, out of sight. 
 Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft 
 golden light. 
 
 I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 
 An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 
 
 When, o^er earth''s continents and isles between. 
 The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, 
 And married nations dwell in harmony ; 
 
THE BURIAL-PLACE— A FRAGMENT. 167 
 
 When millions, crouching in the dust to one, 
 
 No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, 
 Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
 The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were 
 done. 
 
 Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers 
 And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 
 
 The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 
 And ruddy fruits ; but not for aye can last 
 The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 't is past. 
 
 Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly. 
 And, like the glorious light of summer, cast 
 
 O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, 
 
 On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. 
 
 THE BURIAL-PLACE — A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our sires 
 Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades 
 Or blossoms ; and indulgent to the strong 
 And natural dread of man's last home, the grave, 
 Its frost and silence — they disposed around. 
 To soothe the melancholy spitit that dwelt 
 Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues 
 Of vegetable beauty. — There the yew. 
 Green even amid the snows of winter, told 
 Of immortality, and gracefully 
 The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped ; 
 And there the gadding woodbine crept about. 
 
1 68 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And there the ancient ivy. From the spot 
 Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years, 
 Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands 
 That trembled as they placed her there, the rose 
 Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke 
 Her graces, than the proudest monument. 
 And children set about their playmate's grave 
 The pansy. On the infant's little bed, 
 Wet at its planting with maternal tears, 
 Emblem of early sweetness, early death. 
 Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames, 
 And maids that would not raise the reddened eye, — 
 Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy 
 Fled early, — silent lovers, who had given 
 All that they lived for to the arms of earth, 
 Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew 
 Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers. 
 The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep 
 Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone, 
 In his wide temple of the wilderness. 
 Brought not these simple customs of the heart 
 With them. It might be, while they laid their dead 
 By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves. 
 And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowers 
 About their graves ; and the familiar sliades 
 Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms. 
 And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand 
 Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites 
 Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known, 
 And rarely in our borders may you meet 
 The tall larch, sighing in the burying-place. 
 Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide 
 
THE YELLOW VIOLET. 169 
 
 The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves 
 
 And melancholy ranks of monuments 
 
 Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between, 
 
 Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind 
 
 Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh, 
 
 Olfers its berries to the school-boy's hand, 
 
 In vain — they grow too near the dead. Yet here, 
 
 Nature, rebuking the neglect of man, 
 
 Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone. 
 
 The briar rose, and upon the broken turf 
 
 That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry vine 
 
 Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth 
 
 Her ruddy, pouting fruit. ... 
 
 THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
 
 When beechen buds begin to swell, 
 
 And woods the blue-bird's warble know, 
 
 The yellow violet's modest bell 
 
 Peeps from the last year's leaves below. 
 
 Ere russet fields their green resume. 
 Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare. 
 
 To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
 Alone is in the virgin air. 
 
 Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
 First plant thee in the watery mould, 
 
 And I have seen thee blossoming 
 Beside the snow-bank's edoes cold. 
 
lyo BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Thy parent sun, who bade thee view- 
 Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 
 
 Has bathed thee in his own bright hue. 
 And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 
 
 Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
 And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 
 
 Unapt the passing view to meet, 
 
 When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 
 
 Oft, in the sunless April day, 
 
 Thy early smile has stayed my walk. 
 
 But 'midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 
 I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 
 
 So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
 The friends in darker fortunes tried. 
 
 I copied them — but I regret 
 
 That I should ape the ways of pride. 
 
 And when again the genial hour 
 Awakes the painted tribes of light, 
 
 r 11 not overlook the modest flower 
 That made the woods of April bright. 
 
 ''/ CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT 
 FERVID devotion:' 
 
 I CANNOT forget with what fervid devotion 
 I worshipped the visions of verse and of fame : 
 
 Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean, 
 To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame. 
 
" / CAiVNO T FOR GET.'' 171 
 
 And deep were my musings in life's early blossom, 
 'Mid the twilight of mountain groves wandering 
 long; 
 How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my 
 full bosom, 
 When o'er me descended the spirit of song. 
 
 'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened 
 
 To the rush of the pebble-paved river between, 
 Where the kingfisher screamed and gray precipice 
 glistened, 
 All breathless with awe have I gazed on the 
 scene ; 
 
 Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries stealing. 
 From his throne in the depth of that stern soli- 
 tude, 
 And he breathed through my lips, in that tempest 
 of feeling, 
 Strains warm with his spirit, though artless and 
 rude. 
 
 Bright visions ! I mixed with the world and ye 
 faded ; 
 
 No longer your pure rural worshipper now ; 
 In the haunts your continual presence pervaded, 
 
 Ye shrink from the signet of care on my brow. 
 
 In the old mossy groves on the breast of the moun- 
 tain, 
 In deep lonely glens where the waters complain, 
 By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the foun- 
 tain, 
 I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain. 
 
172 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Oh, leave not, forlorn and forever forsaken, 
 Your pupil and victim, to life and its tears ! 
 
 But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken 
 The glories ye showed to his earlier years. 
 
 LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. 
 
 I STAND ugon my native hills again. 
 
 Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky 
 With garniture of waving grass and grain, 
 
 Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie. 
 While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, 
 Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. 
 
 A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, 
 And ever restless feet of one, who, now. 
 
 Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year ; 
 There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, 
 
 As breaks the varied scene upon her sight. 
 
 Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light. 
 
 For I have taught her, with delighted eye, 
 To gaze upon the mountains, to behold. 
 
 With deep affection, the pure ample sky. 
 And clouds along its blue abysses rolled. 
 
 To love the song of waters, and to hear 
 
 The melody of winds with charmed ear. 
 
 Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat. 
 
 Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air; 
 And where the season's milder fervors beat, 
 
SONNE T— MUTA TION 1 7 3 
 
 And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 
 The song of bird, and sound of running stream, 
 Am come awhile to wander and to dream. 
 
 Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, 
 In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen. 
 
 The maize leaf and the maple bough but take, 
 From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green. 
 
 The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, 
 
 Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away. 
 
 The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all 
 The wide earth knows — when, in the sultry time, 
 
 He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, 
 He seems the breath of a celestial clime ; 
 
 As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow, 
 
 Health and refreshment on the world below. 
 
 SONNET— mutation: 
 
 They talk of short-lived pleasure — be it so — 
 
 Pain dies as quickly : stern, hard-featured pain 
 Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go. 
 
 The fiercest agonies have shortest reign ; 
 
 And after dreams of horror, comes again 
 The welcome morning with its rays of peace. 
 
 Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain, 
 Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease : 
 Remorse is virtue's root ; its fair increase 
 
 Are fruits of innocence and blessedness ; 
 
174 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Thus joy, overborne and bound, doth still release 
 His young limbs from the chains that round him 
 
 press. 
 Weep not that the world changes — did it keep 
 A stable changeless state, ''t were cause indeed to 
 
 weep. 
 
 HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 
 
 The sad and solemn night 
 Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires ; 
 
 The glorious host of light 
 Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; 
 All through her silent watches, gliding slow, 
 Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, 
 and go. 
 
 Day, too, hath many a star 
 To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : 
 
 Through the blue fields afar. 
 Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : 
 Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, 
 Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. 
 
 And thou dost see them rise, 
 Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them set. 
 
 Alone, in thy cold skies, 
 Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, 
 Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, 
 Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. 
 
The twenty-second of December. 
 
HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 175 
 
 There, at morn's rosy birth, 
 Tiiou lookest meekly through the kindling air, 
 
 And eve, that round the earth 
 Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; 
 There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 
 The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure 
 walls. 
 
 Alike, beneath thine eye, 
 The deeds of darkness and of light are done ; 
 
 High toward the star-lit sky 
 Towns blaze — the smoke of battle blots the sun — 
 The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud — 
 And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and 
 cloud. 
 
 On thy unaltering blaze 
 The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost. 
 
 Fixes his steady gaze. 
 And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; 
 And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, 
 Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their foot- 
 steps right. 
 
 And, therefore, bards of old, 
 Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, 
 
 Did in thy beams behold 
 A beauteous type of that unchanging good, 
 That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray 
 The voyager of time «^hould shape his heedful way. 
 
176 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. 
 
 Wild was the day ; the wintry sea 
 
 Moaned sadly on New England's strand, 
 
 When first, the thoughtful and the free, 
 Our fathers, trod the desert land. 
 
 They little thought how pure a light, 
 
 With years, should gather round that day ; 
 
 How love should keep their memories bright, 
 How wide a realm their sons should sway. 
 
 Green are their bays ; but greener still 
 
 Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, 
 
 And regions, now untrod, shall thrill 
 
 With reverence, when their names are breathed. 
 
 Till where the sun, with softer fires. 
 
 Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep, 
 The children of the pilgrim sires 
 
 This hallowed day like us shall keep. 
 
 ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRA- 
 TION. 
 
 Far back in the ages, 
 
 The plough with wreaths was crowned : 
 The hands of kings and sages 
 
 Entwined the chaplet round ; 
 
A WALK AT SUNSET. 177 
 
 Till men of spoil disdained the toil 
 
 By which the world was nourished. 
 And dews of blood enriched the soil 
 
 Where green their laurels flourished : 
 — Now the world her fault repairs — 
 
 The guilt that stains her story ; 
 And weeps her crimes amid the cares 
 
 That formed her earliest glory. 
 
 The proud throne shall crumble, 
 
 The diadem shall wane, 
 The tribes of earth shall humble 
 
 The pride of those who reign ; 
 And War shall lay his pomp away ; — 
 
 The fame that heroes cherish, 
 The glory earned in deadly fray, 
 
 Shall fade, decay, and perish. 
 Honor waits, o'er all, the Earth, 
 
 Through endless generations, 
 The art that calls her harvests forth, 
 And feeds the expectant nations. 
 
 A WALK AT SUNSET. 
 
 When insect wings are glistening in the beam 
 Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, 
 
 Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream. 
 Wander amid the mild and mellow light ; 
 
 And while the redbreast pipes his evening lay, 
 
 Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day. 
 
178 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Oh, sun ! that o'er the western mountains now 
 
 Goest down in glory ! ever beautiful 
 And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou 
 
 Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, 
 Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high 
 Climbest, and streamest thy white splendors from 
 midsky. 
 
 Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, 
 Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues 
 
 That live among the clouds, and flush the air, 
 Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. 
 
 Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard 
 
 The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of 
 bird. 
 
 They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, 
 Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won ; 
 
 They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, 
 Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun ; 
 
 Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair. 
 
 And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air. 
 
 So, with the glories of the dying day, 
 
 Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues. 
 The memory of the brave who passed away 
 
 Tenderly mingled ; — fitting hour to muse 
 On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed 
 Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead. 
 
 For ages, on the silent forests here. 
 
 Thy beams did fall before the red man came 
 
A WALK AT SUNSET. 179 
 
 To dwell beneath them ; in their shade the deer 
 
 Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. 
 Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods. 
 Save by the beavers tooth, or winds, or rush of 
 floods. 
 
 Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, 
 For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, 
 
 And well-fought wars ; green sod and silver brook 
 Took the first stain of blood ; before thy face 
 
 The warrior generations came and passed. 
 
 And glory was laid up for many an age to last. 
 
 Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze 
 Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, 
 
 And, with them, the old tale of better days. 
 And trophies of remembered power, are gone. 
 
 Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough 
 
 Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story 
 now. 
 
 I stand upon their ashes, in thy beam. 
 The offspring of another race, I stand. 
 
 Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream ; 
 And where the night-fire of the quivered band 
 
 Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, 
 
 I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new 
 tongue. 
 
 Farewell ! but thou shalt come again — thy light 
 
 Must shine on other changes, and behold 
 The place of the thronged city still as night — 
 
I So BRYANT'S POEMS, 
 
 States fallen — new empires built upon the 
 old — 
 But never shalt thou see these realms again 
 Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by sav- 
 age men. 
 
 HYMN OF THE WALDENESS. 
 
 Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock 
 Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock ; 
 While those, who seek to slay thy children, hold 
 Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold ; 
 And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs 
 That nurse the grape and wave the grain, are 
 theirs. 
 
 Yet better were this mountain wilderness, 
 And this wild life of danger and distress — 
 Watchings by night and perilous flight by day, 
 And meetings in the depths of earth to pray ; 
 Better, far better, than to kneel with them. 
 And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn. 
 
 Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder ; the firm land 
 
 Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand ; 
 
 Thou dashest nation against nation, then 
 
 Stillest the angry world to peace again. 
 
 Oh, touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons — 
 
 The murderers of our wives and little ones. 
 
SONG OF THE STARS. l8i 
 
 Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth 
 Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth. 
 Then the foul power of priestly sin and all 
 Its long-upheld idolatries shall fall. 
 Thou shalt raise up the trampled and opprest, 
 And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest. 
 
 SONG OF THE STARS. 
 
 When the radiant morn of creation broke, 
 
 And the world in the smile of God awoke, 
 
 And the empty realms of darkness and death 
 
 Were moved through their depths by his mighty 
 
 breath, 
 And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame 
 From the void abyss by myriads came, — 
 In the joy of youth as they darted away. 
 Through the widening wastes of space to play. 
 Their silver voices in chorus rung. 
 And this was the song the bright ones sung : — 
 
 " Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, — 
 The fair blue fields that before us lie, — 
 Each sun, with the worlds that round him roll, 
 Each planet, poised on her turning pole ; 
 With her isles of green and her clouds of white, 
 And her waters that lie like fluid light. 
 
 " For the source of glory uncovers his face. 
 And the brightness overflows unbounded space ; 
 
1 82 BRYANT' S POEMS. 
 
 And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides 
 In our ruddy air and our blooming sides : 
 Lo, yonder the living splendors play ; 
 Away, on our joyous path, away! 
 
 " Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 
 
 In the infinite azure, star after star, • 
 
 How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly 
 
 pass ! 
 How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! 
 And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 
 Where the small waves dance, and the young woods 
 
 lean. 
 
 " And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, 
 How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; 
 And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues, 
 Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their 
 
 dews ; 
 And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground. 
 With her shadowy cone the night goes round ! 
 
 " Away, away ! in our blossoming bowers. 
 In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours. 
 In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, 
 See, Love is brooding, and Life is born, 
 And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
 To rejoice like us, in motion and light. 
 
 " GHde on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres. 
 To weave the dance that measures the years ; 
 
HYMN OF THE CITY. 183 
 
 Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent, 
 
 To the farthest wall of the firmament, — 
 
 The boundless visible smile of Him, 
 
 To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim." 
 
 HYMN OF THE CITY. 
 
 Not in the solitude 
 Alone, may man commune with Heaven, or see 
 
 Only in savage wood 
 And sunny vale, the present Deity ; 
 
 Or only hear his voice 
 Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. 
 
 Even here do I behold 
 Thy steps, Almighty ! — here, amidst the crowd 
 
 Through the great city rolled, 
 With everlasting murmur, deep and loud — 
 
 Choking the ways that wind 
 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. 
 
 Thy golden sunshine comes 
 From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, 
 
 And lights their inner homes — 
 For them thou filPst with air the unbounded skies. 
 
 And givest them the stores 
 Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 
 
 Thy spirit is around, 
 Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; 
 And this eternal sound — 
 
184 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng 
 
 Like the resounding sea, 
 Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. 
 
 And when the hours of rest 
 Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, 
 
 Hushing its billowy breast — 
 The quiet of that moment, too, is thine ; 
 
 It breathes of Him who keeps 
 The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. 
 
 "iV6> MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE. 
 
 When he, who, from the scourge of wrong, 
 Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, 
 
 Saw the fair region, promised long, 
 And bowed him on the hills to die ; 
 
 God made his grave, to men unknown. 
 Where Moab's rocks a vale infold, 
 
 And laid the aged seer alone 
 
 To slumber while the world grows old. 
 
 Thus still, whene'er the good and just 
 Close the dim eye on life and pain. 
 
 Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust. 
 Till the pure spirit comes again. 
 
 Though nameless, trampled, and forgot. 
 
 His servant's humble ashes lie. 
 Yet God has marked and sealed the spot, 
 
 To call its inmate to the skv- 
 
''BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURNS 185 
 
 BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN:' 
 
 Oh, deem not they are blest alone 
 Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 
 
 The Power who pities man, has shown 
 A blessing for the eyes that weep. 
 
 The light of smiles shall fill again 
 The lids that overflow with tears ; 
 
 And weary hours of woe and pain 
 Are promises of happier years. 
 
 There is a day of sunny rest 
 
 For every dark and troubled night ; 
 
 And grief may bide, an evening guest, 
 But joy shall come with early light. 
 
 And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier 
 Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 
 
 Hope that a brighter, happier sphere, 
 Will give him to thy arms again. 
 
 Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
 Though life its common gifts deny, 
 
 Though with a pierced and bleeding heart. 
 And spurned of men, he goes to die. 
 
 For God has marked each sorrowing day, 
 
 And numbered every secret tear, 
 And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
 
 For all his children suffer here. 
 
1 86 BRYANT'S POEMS, 
 
 THE SKIES. 
 
 Ay ! gloriously thou standest there, 
 Beautiful, boundless firmament ! 
 
 That swelling wide o'er earth and air, 
 And round the horizon bent, 
 
 With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, 
 
 Dost overhang and circle all. 
 
 Far, far below thee, tall old trees 
 
 Arise, and piles built up of old, 
 And hills, whose ancient summits freeze, 
 • In the fierce light and cold. 
 The eagle soars his utmost height. 
 Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. 
 
 Thou hast thy frowns — with thee on high. 
 The storm has made his airy seat. 
 
 Beyond that soft blue curtain lie 
 His stores of hail and sleet. 
 
 Thence the consuming lightnings break, 
 
 There the strong hurricanes awake. 
 
 Yet art thou prodigal of smiles — 
 
 Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern : 
 
 Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, 
 A shout at thy return. 
 
 The glory that comes down from thee. 
 
 Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea. 
 
 The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine. 
 
 The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 
 
THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 187 
 
 The clouds that round him change and shine, 
 
 The airs that fan his way. 
 Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 
 The meek moon walks the silent air. 
 
 The sunny Italy may boast 
 
 The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
 And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 
 
 May thy blue pillars rise ; 
 I only know hov/ fair they stand. 
 Around my own beloved land. 
 
 And they are fair — a charm is theirs, 
 
 That earth, the proud green earth, has not — 
 
 With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 
 That haunt her sweetest spot. 
 
 We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 
 
 And read of Heaven's eternal year. 
 
 Oh, when, amid the throng of men. 
 The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 
 
 How willingly we turn us then 
 Away from this cold earth, 
 
 And look into thy azure breast, 
 
 For seats of innocence and rest. 
 
 THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 
 
 Beneath the waning moon I walk at night, 
 And muse on human life — for all around 
 
 Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight, 
 And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground, 
 
1 88 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And broken gleams of brightness, here and there, 
 Glance through, and leave unwarned the deathlike 
 air. 
 
 The trampled earth returns a sound of fear — 
 A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs ; 
 
 And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appear, 
 Far off, and die like hope amid the glooms, 
 
 A mournful wind across the landscape flies, 
 
 And the wide atmosphere is full of sighs. 
 
 And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on. 
 Watching the stars that roll the hours away, 
 
 Till the faint light that guides me now is gone, 
 And, like another life, the glorious day 
 
 Shall open o'er me from the empyreal height. 
 
 With warmth, and certainty, and boundless light. 
 
 SONNET— TO 
 
 Ay, thou art for the grave ; thy glances shine 
 
 Too brightly to shine long ; another Spring 
 Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine — 
 
 Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening 
 The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf. 
 
 And the vexed ore no mineral of power ; 
 And they who love thee wait in anxious grief 
 
 Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. 
 Glide softly to thy rest then ; Death should come 
 
 Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 189 
 
 As light winds wandering through groves of bloom 
 
 Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. 
 Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain ; 
 And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 
 
 year, 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 
 
 brown and sear. 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered 
 
 leaves lie dead ; 
 They rustle to the-eddying gust, and to the rabbit's 
 
 tread. 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from the 
 
 shrubs the jay, 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all 
 
 the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
 lately sprang and stood 
 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- 
 hood? 
 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of 
 flowers 
 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good 
 of ours. 
 
190 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold 
 
 November ram, 
 Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones 
 
 again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 
 
 ago, 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the 
 
 summer glow ; 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 
 
 wood, 
 And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn 
 
 beauty stood, 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls 
 
 the plague on men, 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone, from 
 
 upland, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still 
 such days will come. 
 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter 
 home ; 
 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though 
 all the trees are still. 
 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 
 
 The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra- 
 grance late he bore, 
 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by the 
 stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 
 died. 
 
HYMN TO DEATH. 191 
 
 The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by 
 
 my side : 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest 
 
 cast the leaf. 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 
 
 brief: 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young 
 
 friend of ours, 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 
 
 flowers. 
 
 HYMN TO DEATH. 
 
 Oh ! could I hope the wise and pure in heart 
 
 Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem 
 
 My voice unworthy of the theme it tries, — 
 
 I would take up the hymn to Death, and say 
 
 To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee 
 
 And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow 
 
 They place an iron crown, and call thee king 
 
 Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world. 
 
 Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair. 
 
 The loved, the good — that breath'st upon the lights 
 
 Of virtue set along the vale of life, 
 
 And they go out in darkness. I am come, 
 
 Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers. 
 
 Such as have stormed thy stern insensible ear 
 
 From the beginning. I am come to speak 
 
 Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept 
 
 Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again ; 
 
192 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And thou from some I love wilt take a life 
 
 Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell 
 
 Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee 
 
 In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, 
 
 Meet is it that my voice should utter forth 
 
 Thy nobler triumphs : I will teach the world 
 
 To thank thee. — Who are thine accusers? — Who? 
 
 The living ! — they who never felt thy power, 
 
 And know thee not. The curses of the wretch 
 
 Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand 
 
 Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, 
 
 Are writ among thy praises. But the good — 
 
 Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace. 
 
 Upbraid the gentle violence that took off 
 
 His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell? 
 
 Raise then the Hymn to Death. Deliverer ! 
 God hath anointed thee to free the opprest 
 And crush the oppressor. When the arm^d chief, 
 The conqueror of nations, walks the world, 
 And it is changed beneath his feet, and all 
 Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm — 
 Thou, while his head is loftiest, and his heart 
 Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand 
 Almighty, sett'st upon him thy stern grasp. 
 And the strong links of that tremendous chain 
 That bound mankind are crumbled ; thou dost break 
 Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust. 
 Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes 
 Gather within their ancient bounds again. 
 Else had the mighty of the olden time, 
 Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned 
 His birth from Libyan Ammon, smote even now 
 
HYMN TO DEATH. 193 
 
 The nations with a rod of iron, and driven 
 
 Their chariots o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge, 
 
 In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know 
 
 No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose 
 
 Only to lay the sufferer asleep, 
 
 Where he who made him wretched troubles not 
 
 His rest — thou dost strike down his tyrant too. 
 
 Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge 
 
 Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold. 
 
 Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible 
 
 And old idolatries ; — from the proud fanes 
 
 Each to his grave their priests go out, till none 
 
 Is left to teach their worship ; then the fires 
 
 Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss 
 
 O'ercreeps their altars ; the fallen images 
 
 Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns, 
 
 Chanted by kneeling crowds, the chiding winds 
 
 Shriek in the solitary aisles. When he 
 
 Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all 
 
 The laws that God or man has made, and round 
 
 Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth, — 
 
 Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven, 
 
 And celebrates his shame in open day. 
 
 Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off 
 
 The horrible example. Touched by thine. 
 
 The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the gold 
 
 Wrung from the o"'er-worn poor. The perjurer 
 
 Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble 
 
 Against his neighbor's life, and he who laughed 
 
 And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame 
 
 Blasted before his own foul calumnies. 
 
 Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold 
 
194 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 His conscience to preserve a worthless life, 
 
 Even while he hugs himself on his escape, 
 
 Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length, 
 
 Thy steps overtake him, and there is no time 
 
 For parley — nor will bribes unclench thy grasp. 
 
 Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long 
 
 Ere his last hour. And when the reveller. 
 
 Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, 
 
 And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life 
 
 Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal, 
 
 And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye. 
 
 And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand 
 
 Shows to the faint of spirit the right path. 
 
 And he is warned, and fears to step aside. 
 
 Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime 
 
 Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand 
 
 Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully 
 
 Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy 
 
 shafts 
 Drink up the ebbing spirit — then the hard 
 Of heart and violent of hand restores 
 The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged. 
 Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck 
 The guilty secret ; lips, for ages sealed. 
 Are faithless to the dreadful trust at length, 
 And give it up ; the felon's latest breath 
 Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime ; 
 The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in tears. 
 Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged 
 To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make 
 Thy penitent victim utter to the air 
 The dark conspiracy that strikes at life, 
 
HYMN TO DEATH. 195 
 
 And aims to whelm the laws ; ere yet the hour 
 Is come, and the dread sign of murder given. 
 
 Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found 
 On virtue's side ; the wicked, but for thee, 
 Had been too strong for the good ; the great of earth 
 Had crushed the weak forever. Schooled in guile 
 For ages, while each passing year had brought 
 Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world 
 With their abominations ; while its tribes, 
 Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, 
 Had knelt to them in worship ; sacrifice 
 Had smoked on many an altar, temple roofs 
 Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn : 
 But thou, the great reformer of the world, 
 Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud 
 In their green pupilage, their lore half learned — 
 Ere guilt has quite overrun the simple heart 
 God gave them at their birth, and blotted out 
 His image. Thou dost mark them, flushed with hope, 
 As on the threshold of their vast designs 
 Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down. 
 
 Alas, 1 little thought that the stern power 
 Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus 
 Before the strain was ended. It must cease — 
 For he is in his grave who taught my youth 
 The art of verse, and in the bud of life 
 Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off 
 Untimely ! when thy reason in its strength, 
 Ripened by years of toil and studious search 
 
196 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught 
 
 Thy hand to practise best the lenient art 
 
 To which thou gavest thy laborious days, 
 
 And, Jast, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth 
 
 Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes 
 
 And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill 
 
 Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale 
 
 When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which 
 
 thou 
 Shalt not, as wont, overlook, is all I have 
 To oiTer at thy grave — this — and the hope 
 To copy thy example, and to leave 
 A name of which the wretched shall not think 
 As of an enemy's whom they forgive 
 As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou 
 Whose early guidance trained my infant steps — 
 Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep 
 Of death is over, and a happier life 
 Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. 
 
 Now thou art not — and yet the men whose guilt 
 Has wearied Heaven for vengeance — he who bears 
 False witness — he who takes the orphan's bread, 
 And robs the widow — he who spreads abroad 
 Polluted hands in mockery of prayer. 
 Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look 
 On what is written, yet I blot not out 
 The desultory numbers — let them stand, 
 The record of an idle re very. 
 
EARTH'S CHILDREN, 19: 
 
 '' earth's children cleave to 
 earth:' 
 
 Earth's children cleave to earth — her frail 
 
 Decaying children dread decay. 
 Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale, 
 
 And lessens in the morning ray : 
 Look, how, by mountain rivulet, 
 
 It lingers, as it upward creeps, 
 And clings to fern and copsewood set 
 
 Along the green and dewy steeps : 
 Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings 
 
 To precipices fringed with grass. 
 Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings, 
 
 And bowers of fragrant sassafras. 
 Yet all in vain — it passes still 
 
 From hold to hold, it cannot stay. 
 And in the very beams that fill 
 
 The world with glory, wastes away. 
 Till, parting from the mountain's brow. 
 
 It vanishes from human eye. 
 And that which sprung of earth is now 
 
 A portion of the glorious sky. 
 
 TO A waterfowl. 
 
 Whither, 'midst falling dew. 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day. 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way ? 
 
19S BRYANT'S POEMS, 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean side? 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, 
 The desert and illimitable air — 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned, 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near, 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest. 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 ThouVt gone, the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given. 
 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He who, from zone to zone, 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. 
 In the long way that I must tread alone 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
THE BATTLE FIELD, \% 
 
 THE BATTLE FIELD. 
 
 Once this soft turf, this rivulef s sands, 
 Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
 
 And fiery hearts and arm^d hands 
 Encountered in the battle cloud. 
 
 Ah ! never shall the land forget 
 
 How gushed the life-blood of her brave — 
 Gushed, warm with hope and valor yet, 
 
 Upon the soil they fought to save. 
 
 Now all is calm and fresh and still ; 
 
 Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
 And talk of children on the hill. 
 
 And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 
 
 No solemn host goes trailing by 
 
 The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; 
 Men start not at the battle cry ; 
 
 Oh, be it never heard again ! 
 
 Soon rested those who fought — but thou. 
 
 Who minglest in the harder strife 
 For truths which men receive not now, 
 
 Thy warfare only ends with life. 
 
 A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
 Through weary day and weary vear ; 
 
 A wild and many-weaponed throng 
 Hang on thy front and flank and rear. 
 
200 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
 And blench not at thy chosen lot ; 
 
 The timid good may stand aloof, 
 
 The sage may frown — yet faint thou not ! 
 
 Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. 
 The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn ; 
 
 For with thy side shall dwell, at last. 
 The victory of endurance born. 
 
 Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 
 
 The eternal years of God are hers ; 
 But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, 
 
 And dies among his worshippers. 
 
 Yea, though thou lie upon the dust. 
 
 When those who helped thee flee in fear. 
 Die full of hope and manly trust. 
 
 Like those who fell in battle here. 
 
 Another hand thy sword shall wield. 
 Another hand the standard wave, 
 
 Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
 The blast of triumph o'er thy grave ! 
 
 THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Fair is thy site, Sorrento ! green thy shore ! 
 
 Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies, 
 The sea, whose borders ruled the world of yore. 
 
 As clear, and bluer still, before thee lies. 
 
THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. 201 
 
 Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire. 
 Out-gushing, drowned the cities on his steeps ; 
 
 And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire, 
 Sits on the slope beyond, where Virgil sleeps. 
 
 Here doth the earth with flowers of every hue 
 
 Heap her green breast, when April's sun is 
 bright — 
 
 Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue, 
 Or Hke the mountain frost of silvery white. 
 
 Currents of fragrance from the orange tree. 
 And sward of violets, breathing to and fro, 
 
 Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea. 
 Refresh the idle boatman where they blow. 
 
 Yet even here, as under harsher climes. 
 
 Tears o'er the loved and early lost are shed. 
 
 That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes. 
 Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead. 
 
 Here once a child, a playful, smiling one. 
 All the day long caressing and caressed. 
 
 Died, when his little tongue had just begun 
 To lisp the names of those he loved the best. 
 
 The father strove his struggling grief to quell ; 
 
 The mother wept, as mothers used to weep ; 
 Two little sisters wearied them to tell 
 
 When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep. 
 
 Within an inner room his couch they spread. 
 
 His funeral couch ; with mingled grief and love, . 
 
 They laid a crown of roses on his head, 
 
 And murmured, " Brighter is his crown above." 
 
202 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 They scattered round him, on his snowy sheet, 
 Laburnum's strings of sunny-colored gems, 
 
 Sad hyacinth and violet dim and sweet, 
 
 And orange blossoms on their dark green stems. 
 
 And now the hour is come, — the priest is there, — 
 Torches are lit, — the bells are tolled, — they go, 
 
 With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer, 
 To lay those dear remains in earth below. 
 
 The door is opened — hark that quick glad cry — 
 " Carlo has waked — has waked, and is at play ! " 
 
 The little sisters leap and laugh, and try 
 To climb the couch on which the infant lay. 
 
 And there he sits, alive, and gayly shakes 
 
 In his full hands, the blossoms blue and white, 
 
 And smiles with twinkling ej^es, like one who wakes 
 From a deep slumber at the morning light. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope, 
 Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, 
 With the cool sound of breezes in the beech. 
 Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear 
 No stain of thy dark birthplace ; gushing up 
 From the red mould and slimy roots of earth. 
 Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain air. 
 In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew 
 That shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth God 
 Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright. 
 
THE fountain: 203 
 
 This tangled thicket on the bank above 
 Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green ! 
 For thou dost feed the roots of the wild vine 
 That trails all over it, and to the twigs 
 Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts 
 Her leafy lances ; the viburnum there, 
 Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up 
 Her circlet of green berries. In and out 
 The chipping sparrow, in her coat of brown, 
 Steals silently, lest I should mark her nest. 
 
 Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe 
 Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks 
 Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee held 
 A mighty canopy. When April winds 
 Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush 
 Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up, 
 Opened, in airs of June, her multitude 
 Of golden chalices to humming birds 
 And silken-winged insects of the sky. 
 
 Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in 
 Spring. 
 The liverleaf put forth her sister blooms 
 Of faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf. 
 Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flower 
 Of Sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem 
 The red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, left 
 Her delicate foot-print in the soft moist mould, 
 And on the fallen leaves. The slow-paced bear. 
 In such a sultry summer noon as this, 
 Stopped at thy stream, and drank, and leaped 
 across. 
 
 But thou hast histories that stir the heart 
 
204 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 With deeper feeling ; while I look on thee 
 
 They rise before me. I behold the scene 
 
 Hoary again with forests ; I behold 
 
 The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen 
 
 Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods, 
 
 Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet, 
 
 And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce 
 
 cry 
 That rends the utter silence ; 'tis the whoop 
 Of battle, and a throng of savage men 
 With naked arms and faces stained like blood, 
 Fill the green wilderness ; the long bare arms 
 Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream ; 
 Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree 
 Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short, 
 As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors 
 And conquered vanish, and the dead remain 
 Gashed horribly with tomahawks. The woods 
 Are still again, the frightened bird comes back 
 And plumes her wings ; but thy sweet waters run 
 Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down, 
 Amid the deepening twilight I descry 
 Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard. 
 And bear away the dead. The next day's shower 
 Shall wash the tokens of the fight away. 
 
 I look again — a hunter's lodge is built. 
 With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well. 
 While the meek autumn stains the woods with 
 
 gold. 
 And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door 
 The red man slowly drags the enormous bear 
 Slain in the chestnut thicket, or flings down 
 
THE FOUNTAIN. 205 
 
 The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells 
 Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls, 
 And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh, 
 That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves, 
 'The hickory's white nuts, and the dark fruit 
 That falls from the gray butternut's long boughs. 
 
 So centuries passed by, and still the woods 
 Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the year 
 Graw chill, and glisteaed in the frozen rains 
 Of winter, till the white man swung the axe 
 Beside thee — signal of a mighty change. 
 Then all around was heard the crash of trees. 
 Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground, 
 The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired 
 The brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs. 
 The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green 
 The blackened hillside ; ranks of spiky maize 
 Rose like a host embattled ; the buckwheat 
 Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers 
 The August wind. White cottages were seen 
 With rose-trees at the windows ; barns from which 
 Swelled loud and shrill the cry of chanticleer ; 
 Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse, 
 And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turf 
 Of grasses brought from far o'ercrept thy bank, 
 Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girls 
 Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool ; 
 And children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen-haired. 
 Gathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge. 
 Since then, what steps have trod thy border ! 
 
 Here ! 
 
 On thy green bank, the woodman of the swamp 
 
2o6 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill 
 
 His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream. 
 
 The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still 
 
 September noon, has bathed his heated brow 
 
 In thy cold current. Shouting boys, let loose 
 
 •For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped 
 
 Into a cup the folded linden leaf. 
 
 And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars 
 
 Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side 
 
 Has sat, and mused how pleasant 't were to dwell 
 
 In such a spot, and be as free as thou, 
 
 And move for no man^s bidding more. At eve. 
 
 When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky, 
 
 Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought 
 
 Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully 
 
 And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage, 
 
 Gazing into thy self-replenished depth, 
 
 Has seen eternal order circumscribe 
 
 And bind the motions of eternal change, 
 
 And from the gushing of thy simple fount 
 
 Has reasoned to the mighty universe. 
 
 Is there no other change for thee, that lurks 
 Among the future ages t Will not man 
 Seek out strange arts to wither and deform 
 The pleasant landscape which thou makest green ? 
 Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream 
 Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more 
 Forever, that the water-plants along 
 Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain 
 Alight to drink? Haply shall these green hills 
 Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf 
 Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost 
 
THE WINDS. 207 
 
 Amidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise 
 Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks, 
 Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou 
 Gush midway from the bare and barren steep? 
 
 THE WINDS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, 
 Softly ye played a few brief hours ago ; 
 
 Ye bore the murmuring bee ; ye tossed the hair 
 O^er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow ; 
 
 Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of 
 blue ; 
 
 Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew ; 
 
 Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, 
 
 Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. 
 
 II. 
 
 How are ye changed ! Ye take the cataract's sound ; 
 
 Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might ; 
 The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground ; 
 
 The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. 
 The clouds before you shoot like eagles past ; 
 The homes of men are rocking in your blast ; 
 Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, 
 
 Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. 
 
 III. 
 The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vai 1, 
 
 To 'scape your wrath ; ye seize and dash them 
 dead. 
 
2o8 BRYAN7^'S POEMS. 
 
 Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain ; 
 
 The harvest field becomes a river's bed ; 
 And torrents tumble from the hills around, 
 Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned, 
 And wailing voices, 'midst the tempest's sound. 
 
 Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard 
 A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; 
 
 Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird 
 
 Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's 
 spray. 
 
 See ! to the breaking mast the sailor clings ; 
 
 Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs. 
 
 And take the mountain billow on your wings, 
 And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. 
 
 V. 
 
 Why rage ye thus? — no strife for liberty 
 
 Has made you mad ; no tyrant, strong through 
 fear, 
 
 Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free, 
 And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere : 
 
 For ye were born in freedom where ye blow ; 
 
 Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go : 
 
 Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of 
 snow, 
 Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. 
 
 VI. 
 
 O ye wild winds, a mightier Power than yours 
 In chains upon the shore of Europe lies ; 
 
THE WINDS. 209 
 
 The sceptered throng, whose fetters he endures, 
 
 Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes : 
 And arm^d warriors all around him stand, 
 And, as he struggles, tighten every band. 
 And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, 
 To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race 
 
 Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn 
 chains, 
 And leap in freedom from his prison-place, 
 
 Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains. 
 Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air. 
 To waste the loveliness that time could spare, 
 To fill the earth with woe, and blot her fair 
 
 Unconscious breast with blood from human veins. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But may he like the Spring-time come abroad, 
 
 Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, 
 When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, 
 
 Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light ; 
 Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, 
 The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet. 
 And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, 
 Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night. 
 
2IO BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. 
 
 Here we halt our march, and pitch our tent, 
 
 On the rugged forest ground, 
 And Hght our fire with the branches rent 
 
 By winds fi"om the beeches round. 
 Wild storms have torn this ancient wood, 
 
 But a wilder is at hand. 
 With hail of iron and rain of blood, 
 
 To sweep and scath the land. 
 
 II. 
 
 How the dark waste rings with voices shrill, 
 
 That startle the sleeping bird, 
 To-morrow eve must the voice be still. 
 
 And the step must fall unheard. 
 The Briton lies by the blue Champlain, 
 
 In Ticonderoga's towers, 
 And ere the sun rise twice again, 
 
 The towers and the lake are ours. 
 
 III. 
 Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides, 
 
 Where the fireflies light the brake ; 
 A ruddier juice the Briton hides, 
 
 In his fortress by the lake. 
 Build high the fire, till the panther leap 
 
 From his lofty perch in fright. 
 And we 11 strengthen our weary arms with sleep, 
 
 For the deeds of to-morrow night. 
 
THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. 2il 
 
 THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. 
 
 'T IS said, when Schiller^s death drew nigh, 
 The wish possessed his mighty mind, 
 
 To wander fortli wherever lie 
 
 The homes and haunts of human kind. 
 
 Then strayed the poet, in his dreams. 
 By Rome and Egypt\s ancient graves ; 
 
 Went up the New World's forest streams, 
 Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves. 
 
 Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, 
 The bearded Tartar, 'midst his herds, 
 
 The peering Chinese, and the dark 
 False Malay uttering gentle words. 
 
 How could he rest ? even then he trod 
 The threshold of the world unknown ; 
 
 Already, from the seat of God, 
 
 A ray upon his garments shone ; — 
 
 Shone and awoke that strong desire 
 
 For love and knowledge reached not here, 
 
 Till death set free his soul of lire. 
 To plunge into its fitting sphere. 
 
 Then — who shall tell how deep, how bright. 
 The abyss of glory opened round? 
 
 How thought and feeling flowed like light. 
 Through ranks of being without bound ? 
 
»I2 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Oh life ! I breathe thee in the breeze, 
 
 I feel thee bounding in my veins, 
 I see thee in these stretching trees, 
 
 These flowers, this still rock's mossy stains. 
 
 This stream of odors flowing by 
 
 From clover-field and clumps of pine, 
 
 This music, thrilling all the sky, 
 
 From all the morning birds, are thine. 
 
 Thou filPst with joy this little one, 
 That leaps and shouts beside me here. 
 
 Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run 
 
 Through the dark woods like frightened deer. 
 
 Ah ! must thy mighty breath, that wakes 
 Insect and bird, and flower and tree, 
 
 From the low trodden dust, and makes 
 Their daily gladness, pass from me — 
 
 Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground 
 
 These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain, 
 
 And this fair world of sight and sound 
 Seem fading into night again ? 
 
 The things, oh life ! thou quickenest, all 
 Strive upward toward the broad bright sky, 
 
 Upward and outward, and they fall 
 Back to earth's bosom when they die. 
 
LIFE, 21, 
 
 All that have borne the touch of death, 
 All that shall live, lie mingled there. 
 
 Beneath that veil of bloom and breath. 
 That living zone 'twixt earth and air. 
 
 There lies my chamber dark and still, 
 The atoms trampled by my feet, 
 
 There wait, to take the- place I fill 
 In the sweet air and sunshine sweet. 
 
 Well, I have had my turn, have been 
 Raised from the darkness of the clod. 
 
 And for a glorious moment seen 
 
 The brightness of the skirts of God ; 
 
 And knew the light within my breast. 
 Though wavering oftentimes and dim, 
 
 The power, the will, that never rest, 
 And cannot die, were all from him. 
 
 Dear child ! I know that thou wilt grieve, 
 To see me taken from thy love, 
 
 Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve, 
 And weep and scatter flowers above. 
 
 Thy little heart will soon be healed. 
 And being shall be bliss, till thou 
 
 To younger forms of life must yield. 
 The place thou filPst with beauty now. 
 
214 BR YANT 'S POEMS. 
 
 When we descend to dust again, 
 Where will the final dwelling be, 
 
 Of Thought and all its memories then, 
 My love for thee, and thine for me? 
 
 A PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 " Oh father, let us hence — for hark, 
 A fearful murmur shakes the air ; 
 
 The clouds are coming swift and dark ; — 
 "What horrid shapes they wear ! 
 
 A winged giant sails the sky ; 
 
 Oh father, father, let us fly ! " 
 
 " Hush, child ; it is a grateful sound. 
 
 That beating of the summer shower — 
 Here, where the boughs hang close around. 
 
 We '11 pass a pleasant hour. 
 Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain. 
 Has swept the broad heaven clear again." 
 
 *' Nay, father, let us haste — for see. 
 
 That horrid thing with horned brow — 
 His wings o'erhang this very tree, 
 
 He scowls upon us now ; 
 His huge black arm is lifted high ; 
 Oh father, father, let us fly ! " 
 
 " Hush, child ; " but, as the father spoke, 
 Downvv^ard the livid firebolt came, 
 
THE FUTURE LIFE. 215 
 
 Close to his ear the thunder broke, 
 
 And, blasted by the flame, 
 The child lay dead ; while, dark and still, 
 Swept the grim cloud along the hill. 
 
 THE FUTURE LIFE. 
 
 How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
 
 The disembodied spirits of the dead. 
 When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
 
 And perishes among the dust we tread? 
 
 For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain 
 If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 
 
 Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
 In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 
 
 Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? 
 
 That heart whose fondest throbs to me were 
 given ? 
 My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 
 
 Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven ? 
 
 In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, 
 In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, 
 
 And larger movements of the unfettered mind, 
 Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here ? 
 
 The love that lived through a'u the stormy past. 
 And meekly with my harsher nature bore, 
 
 And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last. 
 Shall it expire with life, and be no more ? 
 
2i6 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 
 
 Await thee there ; for thou hast bowed thy will 
 
 In cheerful homage to the rule of right, 
 And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 
 
 For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell. 
 
 Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroU ; 
 
 And wrath hath left its scar — that fire of hell 
 Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 
 
 Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky. 
 Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name. 
 
 The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye. 
 Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? 
 
 Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, 
 The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 
 
 The wisdom which is love — till I become 
 Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ? 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. 
 
 Among our hills and valleys, I have known 
 Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands 
 Tendered or gathered in the fruits of earth, 
 Were reverent learners in the solemn school 
 Of nature. Not in vain to them were sent 
 Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower 
 That darkened the brown tilth, or snow that beat 
 On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn, 
 
THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. 217 
 
 Some truth, some lesson on the life of man. 
 Or recognition of the Eternal mind 
 Who veils his glory with the elements. 
 
 One such I knew long since, a white-haired man, 
 Pithy of speech, and merry when he would ; 
 A genial optimist, who daily drew 
 From what he saw his quaint moralities. 
 Kindly he held communion, though so old, 
 With me a dreaming boy, and taught me much 
 That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget." 
 
 The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, 
 And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills 
 And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. 
 Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds 
 Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom, 
 The robin warbled forth his full clear note 
 For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods. 
 Whose young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast 
 A shade, gay circles of anemones 
 Danced on their stalks ; the shadbush, white with 
 
 flowers. 
 Brightened the glens ; the new-leaved butternut 
 And quivering poplar to the roving breeze 
 Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields 
 I saw the pulses of the gentle wind 
 On the young grass. My heart was touched with joy 
 At so much beauty, flushing every hour 
 Into a fuller beauty ; but my friend. 
 The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, 
 Gazed on it mildly sad. I asked him why. 
 
2i8 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 " Well may'st thou join in gladness," he replied, ■ 
 **With the glad earth, her springing plants and 
 
 flowers, 
 And this soft wind, the herald of the green 
 Luxuriant summer. Thou art young like them, 
 And well may'st thou rejoice. But while the flight 
 Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame. 
 It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims 
 These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be 
 
 quenched 
 In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird ?" 
 
 I listened, and from 'midst the depth of woods 
 Heard the love-signal of the grouse, that wears 
 A sable rufl" around his mottled neck ; 
 Partridge they call him by our northern streams. 
 And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat 
 'Gainst his barred sides his speckled wings, and made 
 A sound like distant thunder ; slow the strokes 
 At first, then fast and faster, till at length 
 They passed into a murmur and were still. 
 
 " There hast thou," said my friend, a " fitting type 
 Of human life. 'T is an old truth, I know, 
 But images like these revive the power 
 Of long familiar truths. Slow pass our days 
 In childhood, and the hours of liglil are long 
 Betwixt the morn and eve ; with swifter lapse 
 They glide in manhood, and in age they fly ; 
 Till days and seasons flit before the mind 
 As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, 
 Seen rather than distinguished. Ah ! I seem 
 
THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL, 219 
 
 As if I sat within a helpless bark, 
 
 By swiftly running waters hurried on 
 
 To shoot some mighty clitf. Along the banks 
 
 Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock. 
 
 Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks, 
 
 And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear 
 
 Each after each, but the devoted skiff 
 
 Darts by so swiftly that their images 
 
 Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell 
 
 In dim confusion ; faster yet 1 sweep 
 
 By other banks and the great gulf is near, 
 
 " Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long. 
 And this fair change of seasons passes slow, 
 Gather and treasure up the good they yield — 
 All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts 
 And kind affections, reverence for thy God 
 And for thy brethren ; so when thou shalt come 
 Into these barren years, thou may'st not bring 
 A mind unfurnished and a withered heart." 
 
 Long since that white-haired ancient slept — but 
 still. 
 When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough. 
 And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within 
 The woods, his venerable form again 
 Is at my side, his voice is in my ear. 
 
220 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 If slumber, sweet Lisena ! 
 
 Have stolen o^er thine eyes, 
 As night steals o'er the glory 
 
 Of spring's transparent skies ; 
 
 Wake, in thy scorn and beauty, 
 And listen to the strain 
 
 That murmurs my devotion. 
 That mourns for thy disdain. 
 
 Here by the door at midnight, 
 I pass the dreary hour, 
 
 With plaintive sounds profaning 
 The silence of thy bower ; 
 
 A tale of sorrow cherished 
 
 Too fondly to depart, 
 Of wrong from love the flatterer, 
 
 And from my own wild heart. 
 
 Twice, o'er this vale, the seasons 
 Have brought and borne away 
 
 The January tempest. 
 The genial wind of May ; 
 
 Yet still my plaint is uttered. 
 My tears and sighs are given 
 
 To earth's unconscious waters. 
 And wandering winds of heaven. 
 
^^ 
 
 
 A Serenade. 
 
A SERENADE. 221 
 
 I saw from this fair region, 
 
 The smile of summer pass. 
 And myriad frost- stars glitter 
 
 Among the russet grass ; 
 
 While winter seized the streamlets 
 
 That fled along the ground, 
 And fast in chains of crystal 
 
 The truant murmurers bound. 
 
 I saw that to the forest 
 
 The nightingales had flown, 
 And every sweet-voiced fountain 
 
 Had hushed its silver tone. 
 
 The maniac winds, divorcing 
 
 The turtle from his mate, 
 Raved through the leafy beeches, 
 
 And left them desolate. 
 
 Now May, with life and music, 
 
 The blooming valley fills. 
 And rears her flowery arches 
 
 For all the little rills. 
 
 The minstrel bird of evening 
 
 Comes back on joyous wings. 
 And, like the harp's soft murmur, 
 
 Is heard the gush of springs. 
 
 And deep within the forest 
 
 Are wedded turtles seen, 
 Their nuptial chambers seeking — 
 
 Their chambers close and green. 
 
222 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 The rugged trees are mingling 
 Their flowery sprays in love ; 
 
 The ivy climbs the laurel, 
 To clasp the boughs above. 
 
 They change — but thou, Lisena, 
 Art cold while I complain : 
 
 Why to thy lover only 
 
 Should spring return in vain ? 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM 
 LEGGETT. 
 
 The earth may ring, from shore to shore, 
 With echoes of a glorious name, 
 
 But he, whose loss our tears deplore, 
 Has left behind him more than fame. 
 
 For when the death frost came to lie 
 On Leggett's warm and mighty heart. 
 
 And quenched his bold and friendly eye. 
 His spirit did not all depart. 
 
 The words of fire that from his pen 
 Were flung upon the lucid page, 
 
 Still move, still shake the hearts of men. 
 Amid a cold and coward age. 
 
 His love of truth, too warm, too strong 
 For Hope or Fear to chain or chill, 
 
 His hate of tyranny and wrong, 
 Burn in the breasts he kindled still. 
 
AN EVENING RE VERY. 223 
 
 AN EVENING REVERY. 
 
 FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 The summer day is dosed — the sun is set : 
 Well they have done their office, those bright hours, 
 The latest of whose train goes softly out 
 In the red West. The green blade of the ground 
 Has risen, and herds have cropped it ; the young twig 
 Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun ; 
 Flowers of the garden and the Avaste have blown 
 And withered ; seeds have fallen upon the soil, 
 From bursting cells, and in their graves await 
 Their resurrection. Insects from the pools 
 Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, 
 That now are still forever ; painted moths 
 Have wandered the blue sky, and died again ; 
 The mother-bird hath broken, for her brood. 
 Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest, 
 Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, 
 In woodland cottages with barky walls. 
 In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, 
 Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe. 
 Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore 
 Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways 
 Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out 
 And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends 
 That ne'er before were parted ; it hath knit 
 New friendships ; it hath seen the maiden plight 
 Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long 
 Had wooed ; and it hath heard, from lips which late 
 
224 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word, 
 That told the wedded one her peace was flown. 
 Farewell to the sweet sunshine ! One glad day 
 Is added now to Childhood's merry days, 
 And one calm day to those of quiet Age. 
 Still the fleet hours run on ; and as I lean, 
 Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit, 
 By those who watch the dead, and those who twine 
 Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes 
 Of her sick infant shades the painful light, 
 And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath. 
 Oh thou great Movement of the Universe, 
 Or Change, or Flight of Time — for ye are one ! 
 That bearest, silently, this visible scene 
 Into night's shadow and the streaming rays 
 Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me ? 
 I feel the mighty current sweep me on. 
 Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar 
 The courses of the stars ; the very hour 
 He knows when they shall darken or grow bright ; 
 Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death 
 Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love, 
 Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall 
 From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife 
 With friends, or shame and general scorn of men — 
 Which who can bear? — or the fierce rack of pain, 
 Lie they within my path ? Or shall the years 
 Push mc, with soft and inoffensive pace. 
 Into the stilly twilight of my age? 
 Or do the portals of another life 
 Even now, while I am glorying in my strength. 
 Impend around me? Oh ! beyond that bourne, 
 
THE PAINTED CUP. 225 
 
 In the vast cycle of being which begins 
 
 At that dread threshold, with what fairer forms 
 
 Shall the great law of change and progress clothe 
 
 Its workings ? Gently — so have good men taught — 
 
 Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide 
 
 Into the new ; the eternal flow of things, 
 
 Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, 
 
 Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. 
 
 THE PAINTED CUP. 
 
 The fresh savannas of the Sangamon 
 Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass 
 Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts 
 Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire ; 
 The wanderers of the prairie know them well, 
 And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup. 
 
 Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not 
 That these bright chalices were tinted thus 
 To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet 
 On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers, 
 And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, 
 Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, 
 The faded fancies of an elder world ; 
 But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths 
 Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds. 
 To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns 
 The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind 
 ©""erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour 
 
226 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant, 
 To swell the reddening fruit that even now 
 Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. 
 
 But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well — 
 Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, 
 Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, 
 Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone — 
 Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown 
 And ruddy with the sunshine ; let him come 
 On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, 
 And part with little hands the spiky grass ; 
 And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge 
 Of those bright beakers, drain the gathered dew. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 " I HAD a dream — a strange, wild dream — " 
 
 Said a dear voice at early light ; 
 " And even yet its shadows seem 
 
 To linger in my waking sight. 
 
 ** Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew, 
 And bright with morn, before me stood ; 
 
 And airs just wakened softly blew 
 On the young blossoms of the wood. 
 
 " Birds sang within the sprouting shade. 
 Bees hummed amid the whispering grass, 
 
 And children prattled as they played 
 Beside the rivulet's dimpling glass. 
 
A DREAM. 227 
 
 " Fast climbed the sun — the flowers were flown, 
 There played no children in the glen ; 
 
 For some were gone, and some were grown 
 To blooming dames and bearded men. 
 
 •' 'Twas noon, 'twas summer — I beheld 
 Woods darkening in the flush of day, 
 
 And that bright rivulet spread and swelled, 
 A mighty stream, with creek and bay. 
 
 ** And here was love, and there was strife, 
 And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries, 
 
 And strong men, struggling as for life, 
 With knotted limbs and angry eyes. 
 
 " Now stooped the sun — the shades grew thin; 
 
 The rustling paths were piled with leaves ; 
 And sun-burnt groups were gathering in. 
 
 From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves. 
 
 " The river heaved with sullen sounds ; 
 
 The chilly wind was sad with moans ; 
 Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds 
 
 Grew thick with monumental stones. 
 
 " Still waned the day ; the wind that chased 
 
 The jagged clouds blew chiller yet ; 
 The woods were stripped, the fields were waste ; 
 
 The wintry sun was near its set. 
 
 " And of the young, and strong, and fair, 
 
 A lonely remnant, gray and weak, 
 Lingered, and shivered to the air 
 
 Of that bleak shore and water bleak. 
 
228 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 *' Ah ! age is drear, and death is cold ! 
 
 I turned to thee, for thou wert near. 
 And saw thee withered, bowed, and old, 
 
 And woke, all faint with sudden fear." 
 
 'T was thus I heard the dreamer say, 
 And bade her clear her clouded brow ; 
 
 " For thou and I, since childhood\s day, 
 Have walked in such a dream till now. 
 
 " Watch we in calmness, as they rise, 
 The changes of that rapid dream, 
 
 And note its lessons, till our eyes 
 Shall open in the morning beam." 
 
 THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines. 
 That stream with gray-green mosses ; here the 
 
 ground 
 Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring 
 
 up 
 Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet 
 To Hnger here, among the flitting birds. 
 And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and 
 
 winds 
 That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, 
 A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 
 With pale blue berries. In these peaceful 
 
 shades — _ 
 
THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 229 
 
 Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 
 
 My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, 
 
 Back to the earliest days of liberty. 
 
 Oh Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, 
 A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 
 And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
 With which the Roman master crowned his slave 
 When he took off the gyves. A bearded man. 
 Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand 
 Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy 
 
 brow, 
 Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 
 With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 
 Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has 
 
 launched 
 His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; 
 They could not quench the life thou hast from 
 
 heaven. 
 Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, 
 And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires. 
 Have forged thy chain ; yet, while he deems thee 
 
 bound, 
 The links are shivered, and the prison walls 
 Fall outward : terribly thou springest forth. 
 As springs the flame above a burning pile, 
 And shoutest to the nations, who return 
 Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 
 
 Thy birthright was not given by human hands : 
 Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant 
 fields. 
 
230 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, 
 To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, 
 And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
 Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood. 
 Didst war upon the panther and the wolf. 
 His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw 
 The earliest furrows on the mountain side, 
 Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself. 
 Thy enemy, although of reverend look. 
 Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, 
 Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 
 The grave defiance of thine elder eye. 
 The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 
 
 Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years. 
 But he shall fade into a feebler age ; 
 Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, 
 And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 
 His withered hands, and from their ambush call 
 His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 
 Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, 
 To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 
 To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, 
 Twine around thee threads of steel, light thread on 
 
 thread. 
 That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms 
 With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh ! not yet 
 May'st thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by 
 Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom ! close thy lids 
 In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps. 
 And thou must watch and combat till the day 
 Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou 
 
THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 231 
 
 Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, 
 These old and friendly solitudes invite 
 Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
 Were young upon the un violated earth, 
 And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, 
 Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 
 
232 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page I . — Poem of the Ages. 
 
 In this poem, written and first printed in the year 1 821, 
 the Author has endeavored, from a survey of the past ages 
 of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind 
 in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, to justify and con- 
 firm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future des- 
 tinies of the human race. 
 
 Page 31. — The Prairies. 
 The surface rolls and Jiuctuates to the eye. 
 The prairies of the West with an undulating surface, 
 rolling prairies, as they are called, present to the unaccus- 
 tomed eye a singular spectacle when the shadows of the 
 clouds are rapidly passing over them. The face of the 
 ground seems to fluctuate and toss like the billows of 
 the sea. 
 
 Page 32. the prairie-hawk that, poised on high. 
 
 Flaps his broad wings, yet fnoves not. 
 
 I have seen the prairie-hawk balancing himself in the 
 air for hours together,- apparently over the same spot ; 
 probably watching his prey. 
 
 Page 33. These ample fields 
 
 Nourished their harvests. 
 
 The size and extent of the mounds in the valley of the 
 Mississippi, indicate the existence, at a remote period, of 
 
NOTES. 233 
 
 a nation at once populous and laborious, and therefore 
 probably supsisting by agriculture. 
 
 Page 34. the rude conquerors 
 
 Seated the captive with their chiefs. 
 Instances are not wanting of generosity like this among 
 the North American Indians toward a captive or survivor 
 of a hostile tribe on which the greatest cruelties have been 
 exercised. 
 
 Page 64. — The Indian Girl's Lament. 
 
 Her maiden veil, her own black hair, etc. 
 
 *'The unmarried females have a modest falling down of 
 the hair over the eyes." — Eliot. 
 
 Page 67. — The Massacre at Scio. 
 
 This poem, written about the time of the horrible butch- 
 ery of the Sciotes by the Turks, in 1824, has been more 
 fortunate than most poetical predictions. The independ- 
 ence of the Greek nation, which it foretold, has come to 
 pass, and the massacre, by inspiring a deeper detestation 
 of their oppressors, did much to promote that event. 
 
 Page 73. — Monument Mountain. 
 The mountain called by this name is a remarkable preci- 
 pice in Great Barrington, overlooking the rich and pictur- 
 esque valley of the Housatonic, in the western part ol 
 Massachusetts. At the southern extremity is, or was a few 
 years since, a conical pile of small stones, erected, accord- 
 ing to the tradition of the surrounding country, by th«s 
 Indians, in memory of a woman of the Stockbridge tribe, 
 who killed herself by leaping from the edge of the preci- 
 pice. Until within a few years past, small parties of that 
 
234 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 tribe used to arrive from their settlement in the western 
 part of the State of "New York, on visits to Stockbridge, 
 the place of their nativity and former residence. A young 
 woman belonging to one of these parties related to a friend 
 of the author the story on which the poem of Monument 
 Mountain is founded. An Indian girl had formed an 
 attachment for her cousin, which, according to the cus- 
 toms of the tribe, was unlawful. She was, in consequence, 
 seized with a deep melancholy, and resolved to destroy her- 
 self. In company with a female friend she repaired to the 
 mountain, decked out for the occasion in all her orna- 
 ments, and, after passing the day on its summit in singing 
 with her companion the traditional songs of her nation, 
 she threw herself headlong from the rock, and was killed. 
 
 Page 78. — The Murdered Traveller. 
 
 Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of 
 a human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were 
 found in a woody ravine, near a solitary road passing 
 between the mountains west of the village of Stockbridge. 
 It was supposed that the person came to his death by vio- 
 lence, but no traces could be discovered of his murderers. 
 It was only recollected that one evening in the course of 
 the previous winter a traveller had stopped at an inn in the 
 village of West Stockbridge ; that he had inquired the way 
 to Stockbridge ; and that, in paying the innkeeper for 
 something he had ordered, it appeared that he had a con- 
 siderable sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking 
 men were present, and went out about the same time that 
 the traveller proceeded on his journey. During the winter, 
 also, two men of shabby appearance, but plentifully sup- 
 plied with money, had lingered for awhile about the village 
 of Stockbridge. Several years afterward, a criminal, about 
 
NOTES. -235 
 
 to be executed for a capital offence in Canaaa, confessed 
 that he had been concerned in murdering a traveller in 
 Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever 
 discovered respecting the name or residence of the person 
 murdered. 
 
 Page 81. — The African Chief. 
 Chained in the market-place he stood^ etc. 
 
 The story of the African Chief, related in this ballad, 
 may be found in the African Repository for April, 1825. 
 The subject of it vi^as a warrior of majestic stature, the 
 brother of Yarradee, king of the Solima nation. He had 
 been taken in battle, and was brought in chains for sale to 
 the Rio Pongas, where he was exhibited in the market- 
 place, his ankles still adorned with the massy rings of gold 
 which he wore when captured. The refusal of his captor 
 to listen to his offers of ransom drove him mad, and he 
 died a maniac- 
 Page 87. — The Hunter's Serenade. 
 And stoops the slim papaya, etc. 
 
 Papaya — papaw, custard-apple. Flint, in his excellent 
 work on the Geography and History of the Western States, 
 thus describes this tree and its fruit : 
 
 "A papaw shrub hanging full of fruits, of a size and 
 weight so disproportioned to the stem, aiid from under 
 long and rich-looking leaves, of the same yellow with the 
 ripened fruit, and of an African luxuriance of growth, is to 
 us one of the richest spectacles that we have ever contem- 
 plated in the array of the woods. The fruit contains from 
 two to six seeds, like those of the tamarind, except that 
 they are double the size. The pulp of the fruit resembles 
 
236 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 egg custard in consistence and appearance. It has the 
 same creamy feeling in the mouth, and unites the taste of 
 eggs, cream, sugar, and spice. It is a natural custard, too 
 luscious for the relish of most people." 
 
 Chateaubriand, in his Travels, speaks disparagingly of 
 the fruit of the papaw; but on the authority of Mr. Flint, 
 who must know more of the matter, I have ventured to 
 make my western lover enumerate it among the delicacies 
 of the wilderness. 
 
 Page 89. — Song of Marion's Men. 
 
 The exploits of General Francis Marion, the famous 
 partisan warrior of South Carolina, form an interesting 
 chapter in the annals of the American revolution. The 
 British troops were so harassed by the irregular and suc- 
 cessful warfare which he kept up at the head of a few 
 daring followers, that they sent an officer to remonstrate 
 with him for not coming into the open field and fighting 
 *' like a gentleman and a Christian." 
 
 Page 93. — Love and Folly. — (Fj-om La Fontaine.) 
 
 This is rather an imitation than a translation of the 
 poem of the graceful French fabulist. 
 
 Page 94. — Fatima and Raduan. 
 
 This and the following poems belong to that class of 
 ancient Spanish ballads by unknown authors, called Ro- 
 mances Moriscos — Moriscan romances or ballads. They 
 were composed in the 14th century, some of them, proba- 
 bly, by the Moors, who then lived intermingled with the 
 Christians; and they relate the loves and achievements of 
 the knights of Granada. 
 
NOTES. 237 
 
 Page 96. — The Death of Aliatar. 
 
 Say, Love — fo7' thou didst see her tears, etc. 
 
 The stanza beginning with this line stands thus in the 
 original : — 
 
 Dilo tu, amor, si lo viste; 
 
 i Mas ay ! que de lastimado 
 Diste otro nudo a la venda, 
 
 Para no ver lo que ha passado. 
 
 I am sorry to find so poor a conceit deforming so spirited 
 a composition as this old ballad, but I have preserved it in 
 the version. It is one of those extravagances which after- 
 ward became so common in Spanish poetry when Gongora 
 introduced the estilo culto, as it was called. 
 
 Page 99. — The Alcayde of Molina. 
 
 These eyes shall not recall thee, etc. 
 
 This is the very expression of the orignal. No te 
 llamardn mis ojos, etc. The Spanish poets early adopted 
 the practice of calling a lady by the name of the most ex- 
 pressive feature of her countenance, her eyes. The lover 
 styled his mistress "ojos bellos," beautiful eyes, "ojos 
 serenos," serene eyes. Green eyes seem to have been 
 anciently thought a great beauty in Spain, and there is a 
 very pretty ballad by an absent lover, in which he addressed 
 his lady by the title of "green eyes," supplicating that he 
 may remain in her remembrance. 
 
 ; Ay ojuelos verdes ! 
 
 i Ay los mis ojuelos ! 
 
 I Ay, hagan los cielos 
 Que de mi te acuerdes ! 
 
238 BR YANT 'S rOEMS. 
 
 Page 105. — From the Spanish of Pedro de Cas- 
 tro Y Anaya. 
 
 Las Auroras de Diana, in which the original of these 
 lines is contained, is, notwithstanding it was praised by 
 Lope de Vega, one of the worst of the old Spanish ro- 
 mances, being a tissue of riddles and affectations, with now 
 and then a little poem of considerable beauty. 
 
 Page no. — Love in the Age of Chivalry. 
 This personification of the passion of Love, by Peyre 
 Vidal, has been referred to as a proof of how little the 
 Proven9al poets were indebted to the authors of Greece 
 and Rome for the imagery of their poems. 
 
 Page III. — The Love of God. — (From the Provencal 
 of Bernard Rascas.) 
 
 The original of these lines is thus given by John of Nos- 
 tradamus, in his lives of the Troubadours, in a barbarous 
 Frenchified orthography : — 
 
 Touta kausa mortala una fes perira, 
 Fors que I'amour de Dieu, que tousiours durara. 
 Tous nostres cors vendran essuchs, coma fa I'eska, 
 Lous Aubres leyssaran lour verdour tendra e fresca, 
 Lous Ausselets del bosc perdran lour kant subtyeu, 
 E non s'auzira plus lou Rossignol gentyeu. 
 Lous Buols al Pastourgage, e las blankas fedettas 
 Sent'ran lous agulhons de las mortals Sagettas, 
 Lous crestas d'Arles fiers, Renards e Loups espars, 
 Kabrols, Cervys, Chamous Senglars de toutes pars, 
 Lous Ours hardys e forts, seran poudra, e Arena, 
 Lou Daulphin en la Mar, lou Ton, e la Balena, 
 
NOTES. 239 
 
 Monstres impetuous, Ryaumes, e Comtas, 
 
 Lous Princes, e lous Reys, seran per mort domtas. 
 
 E nota ben eysso kascun : la Terra granda, 
 
 (Ou I'Escritura ment) lou fermament que branda, 
 
 Prendra autra figura. Enfin tout perira, 
 
 Fors que PAmour de Dieu, que touiour durara. 
 
 Page 113. — The Hurricane. 
 This poem is nearly a translation from one by Jose Maria 
 de Herebia, a native of the Island of Cuba, who published 
 at New York, six or seven years since, a volume of poems 
 in the Spanish language. 
 
 Page 130. — Sonnet — William Tell. 
 
 Neither this, nor any of the other sonnets in this volume, 
 with the exception of the one from the Portuguese, is 
 framed according to the legitimate Italian model, which, 
 in the author's opinion, possesses no peculiar beauty for 
 an ear accustomed only to the metrical forms of our own 
 language. The sonnets in this collection are rather poems 
 in fourteen lines than sonnets. 
 
 Page 140. — The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus. 
 
 This conjunction was said in the common calendars to 
 have taken place on the 2d of August, 1826. This, I be- 
 lieve, was an error, but the apparent approach of the 
 planets was sufficiently near for poetical purposes. 
 
 Page 167. — The Burial-Place. 
 
 The first half of this fragment may seem to the reader 
 borrowed from the essay on Rural Funerals in the 4th 
 number of the Sketch Book. The lines were, however, 
 written more than a year before that number appeared. 
 
2 40 BR YANT 'S POEMS. 
 
 The poem, unfinished as it is, would not have been ad- 
 mitted into this collection, had not the author been unwill- 
 ing to lose what had the honor of resembling so beautiful 
 a composition. 
 
 Page 200. — The Child's Funeral. 
 The incident on which this poem is founded, was related 
 to the author while in Europe, in a letter from an English 
 lady. A child died in the south of Italy, and when they 
 went to bury it they found it revived and playing with the 
 flowers which, after the manner of that country, had been 
 brought to grace its funeral. 
 
 Page 203. — The Fountain. 
 
 the Jlotver 
 
 Of Sanguinaria, from zvhose bridle stem 
 The red drops fell like blood. 
 
 The Sanguinaria Canadensis, or blood-root as it is 
 commonly called, bears a delicate white flower of a musky 
 scent, the stem of which breaks easily, and distils a juice 
 of a bright red color. 
 
 Page 210. — The Green Mountain Boys. 
 This song refers to the expedition of the Vermonters, 
 commanded by Ethan Allen, by whom the British fort of 
 Ticonderoga on Lake Champlain was surprised and taken 
 in May, 1775. 
 
 Page 211. — The Death of Schiller. 
 
 ' T is said, zvhen Schiller'' s death drew nigh. 
 The wish possessed his inighty mind. 
 
 To wander forth wherever lie 
 
 The homes and haujtts of human kind. 
 
NOTES. 241 
 
 Shortly before the death of Schiller, he was seized with 
 a strong desire to travel in foreign countries, as if his 
 spirit had a presentiment of its approaching enlargement, 
 and already longed to expatiate in a wider and more varied 
 sphere of existence. 
 
 Page 212. — Life. 
 
 Where Isar^s clay-zvhite rivulets run 
 Through the dark woods like frightened deer. 
 
 Close to the city of Munich, in Bavaria, lies the spacious 
 and beautiful pleasure ground called the English Garden, 
 in which these lines were written, originally projected and 
 laid out by our countryman. Count Rumford, under the 
 auspices of one of the sovereigns of the country. Wind- 
 ing walks of great extent pass through close thickets and 
 groves interspersed with lawns; and streams diverted from 
 the river Isar traverse the grounds swiftly in various direc- 
 tions, the water of which, stained with the clay of the soil 
 it has corroded in its descent from the upper country, is 
 frequently of a turbid white color. 
 
 Page 217. — The Old Man's Counsel. 
 the shadbusk, white withjiowers. 
 
 Brightened the glens. 
 
 The small tree named by the botanist Aronia botyrapum, 
 is called in some parts of our country, the shadbush, from 
 the circumstance that it flowers about the time that the 
 shad ascend the rivers in early Spring. Its delicate sprays, 
 covered with white blossoms before the trees are yet in 
 leaf, have a singularly beautiful appearance in the woods. 
 
242 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Page 218. — " There hast thou^'^ said my friend, ^^ a Jit- 
 ting type 
 Of human life.'' 
 
 I remember hearing an aged man in the country compare 
 the slow movement of time in early life and its swift flight 
 as it approaches old age, to the drumming of a partridge 
 or ruffled grouse in the woods — the strokes falling slow 
 and distinct at first, and following each other more and 
 more rapidly, till they end at last in a whirring sound. 
 
 Page 223. — An Evening Revery. — (^Frojn an unfin- 
 ished poem. ^ 
 
 This poem and that entitled the Fountain, with one or 
 two others in blank verse, were intended by the author as 
 portions of a larger poem, in which they may hereafter 
 take their place. 
 
 Page 225. — The Painted Cup. 
 
 The fresh savannas of the Sangajnon 
 Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass 
 Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts 
 Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire. 
 
 The Painted Cup, Euchroma coccinea, or Bartsia cocci- 
 nea, grows in great abundance in the hazel prairies of the 
 Western States when its scarlet tufts make a brilliant ap- 
 pearance in the midst of the verdure. The Sangamon is 
 a beautiful river, tributary to the Illinois, bordered with 
 rich prairies. 
 
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