LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. @fpii Qnpijnijljt l?a Shelf-.:AL.. ^3.5 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. THANATOPSIS AND OTHER POEMS BY y WILLIAM CULLF.N BRYANT I Tu^-aa PHILADELPHIA HKNRY AI^TEMUS 1895 Copyrighted, 1895, by Henry Altemus. HENRY ALTEMUS, MANUFACTURER, PHILADELPHIA. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT CONTKNTS PAGE The Ages 13 To THE Past 32 Thanatopsis 34 The Lapse of Time 38 To the Evening Wind 40 I Forest Hymn 42 The Old Man's Funeral 48 The Prairies 50 The Knight's Epitaph 55 Seventy-six 58 The Hunter of the Prairies .... 60 A Song of Pitcairn's Island .... 62 Rizpah , .... 64 The Arctic Lover 68 Romero 70 Monument Mountain 73 Song of Marion's Men 79 9 lO CONTENTS. PAGR The Disinterred Warrior 8i The Hurricane 83 "Oh, Fairest of the Rural Maids" 85 Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood 86 To A Mosquito 88 " I Broke the Spell that Held Me Long" 92 The Conjunction of Jupiter and , Venus 93 *^To THE Fringed Gentian 97 " Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower " 98 An Indian at the Burial-Place of His Fathers 99 To A Cloud 103 " The Yellow Violet 104 " I Cannot Forget with what Fervid Devotion" 106 Mutation 108 Hymn to the North Star 109 The Twenty-second of December . in CONTENTS. II PAGE Hymn of the Waldenses 112 Song of the Stars 114 "No Man Knoweth His Sepulchre" 116 "Blessed are They that Mourn" . 117 The Death of the Flowers . . . . 118 ^^To a Water Fowl 121 The Battlefield 122 The Winds . 124 The Green Mountain Boys 128 The Future Life . . 129 The Old Man's Counsri 131 An Evening Reverie 135 The Antiquity of Freedom .... 139 A Hymn of the Sea 142 The Stream of Life 145 Midsummer 146 Green River 147 A Winter Piece 150 Hymn to Death 155 Lines on Revisiting the Country . . 163 Upon the Mountain's Distant Head 165 The Journey of Life 166 1 2 CONTENTS PAEG Love and Folly 167 The Love of God 169 Earth 170 Catterskill Falls 175 Life 180 The Fountian 182 THE AGES. 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. 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, 13 T4 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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 hal- lowed flame. But oh, despair not of their fate who rise To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw ; THE AGES. 15 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 Natme 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. 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? I 6 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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 t will he quench the ray Infused by his own forming smile at first, And leave a work so fair all blighted and ac- cursed ? THE AGES. 17 Oh, no ! a thousand cheerful omens give Hope of yet happier days whose dawn is nigh. He who has tamed the elements, shall not Hve 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. 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 dwelling place, Or freshening rivers ran ; and there forget The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not. 1 8 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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 arid time-wrinkled men, with locks all white. Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught the way of right ; THE AGES. 19 Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed On men the yoke that man should never bear, And drove them forth to battle : Lo ! un- veiled 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. 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 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 : 20 BRYANT'S POEMS. And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up- piled — They perished — but the eternal tombs re- main — And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane ; — Hugh piers and frowning forms of gods sus- tain 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. 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 Scepter and chain with her fair youthful hands : As the rock shivers in the thunder-stroke. THE AGES. 21 And lo! in full-grown strength, an empire stands Of leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands. Oh, Greece, thy flourishing cides were a spoil Unto each other ; thy hard hand oppressed And crushed the helpless ; thou didst make thy soil Drunk with the blood of those that loved thee best ; /\.nd 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. 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 2 2 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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 Hne of slaves ; Guilt reigned, and woe with guilt, and plagues came down, Till the north broke its floodgates, and the waves Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o'er their graves. 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, THE AGES. 23 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. 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 hked 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. Oh, sweetly the returning muses' strain Swelled over that famed stream, whose gen- tle tide In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain, 24 BRYANTS FOEMS. Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased to chide, 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. 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. At last the earthquake came — the shock, that hurled To dust, in many fragments dashed and strown, THE AGES. 25 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. The spirit of that day is still awake» And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again ; 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. 26 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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, unques- tioned 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 noble race. 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 ACES. 27 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 o'erlook the cloud. Erewhile. where yon gay spires their bright- ness 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. 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, 28 BRYANT'S POEMS. And belt and beads in sunlight glistening. The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing. 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 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. 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 AGES. 29 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 : 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. 30 _ BRYANT'S POEMS. Look now abroad — another race has filled These populous borders — wide the wood re- cedes, 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. 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 hght. Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. THE AGES. 31 Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, And writhes in shackles ; strong the arms that chain To earth her strugghng 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. 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 ? 32 BR YANT ' S POEMS. TO THE PAST. Thou unrelenting Past ! Strong are the barriers round tliy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in suUenness 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. 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. TO THE PAST. 33 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. 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. 34 BR YA NT ' S POEMS. 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 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 Hke a blight THANATOPSIS. 35 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 hst 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 Thme 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 36 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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, 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 Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there; And millions in thtis'e 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 THANA TOPSIS. 3 7 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 youth in life's green spring, and he wljo 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 hve, 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. 38 BRYANTS POEMS. 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. Could I give up the hopes that glow In prospect, like Elysian isles ; And let the charmmg 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. THE LAPSE OF TIME. 39 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. 40 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 — 'tis 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 TO THE EVENING WIND. 4 1 Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of deHght ; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 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 o'ershadowing 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; 42 BRYANTS POEMS, 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. 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 FOREST HYMN, 43 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 All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 44 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 isles, 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 fiU'st 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 v/ith 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 FOREST HYMN. 45 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, 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 46 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 he. 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. There have been holy men who hid them- selves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they out- lived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks FOREST HYMN. ^y Around them ; — and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass Hfe 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 faUing 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 folHes 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 lives. 48 BRYANTS POEMS. 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. THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. 49 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. " 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 decUning years away. Cheerful he gave his being up, and went To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. " That Ufe 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 ; 50 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 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. 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, THE PRAIRIES. 5 1 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. As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides. The hollow beating of his footsteps seems A sacrilegious sound. I think of those Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here — 52 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 ghttering 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, warhke and fierce. And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. THE PRAIRIES. 53 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- 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 con- querors Seated the captive with their chiefs ; he chose 54 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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, near 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 Oregan, 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, THE KNIGHT'S EPITAPH. 55 And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Starthngly 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. THE KNIGHT'S EPITAPH. This is the church which pisa, great and free, Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls, 56 BRYANTS POEMS. 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. 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. THE KNIGHT'S EPITAPH. 57 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 For ever, when the Florentine broke in The gates of Pisa, and bore off the bolts For trophies — but he died before that day. " He lived, the impersonation of an age That never shall return. His soul of fire Was kindled by the breath of the rude time 58 BRYANT'S POEMS. He lived in. Now a gentler race succeeds, Shuddering at blood ; the effeminate cavaher, 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 woodland sprung, When, through the fresh awakened land, The thrilling cry of freedom rung, And to the work of warfare strung The yoeman'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, — SEVENTY-SIX. 59 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 yestereve, 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. 6o BRYANTS POEMS. 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 ; 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. THE HUNTER. 6 1 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 gUding mass. And trains the bordering vines, whose blue Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 62 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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 hes. Songs that were made of yore : I'll sing, in his delighted ear. The island lays thou lov'st to hear. And thou, while stammering I repeat. Thy country's tongue shalt teach ; 'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet, Than my own native speech : For thou no other tonsrue didst know, A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. 63 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'll 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, W^e lose the pleasant hours ; 64 BR YANTS POEMS. 'Tis 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 be- fore the I^ord ; 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 sack- cloth, 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 RIZPAH. 65 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 ; 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. 66 BRYANT'S POEMS. " 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. " 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 ruffians tore us apart ! When I clasped their knees, and wept and prayed. RIZPAH. 6j 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 the 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 ; 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." 68 BRYANTS POEMS. 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, 'tis 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'll go where, on the rocky isles, Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles Beside the pebbly shore. Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, With wind-flowers frail and fair, THE ARCTIC LOVER. 69 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'll 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. 70 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 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 ROMERO. 71 From the calm paradise below ; Warmed with his former fires again, He framed this rude but solemn strain. " Here will I make my home — for here at least I see, Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Lib- erty ; Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned lime, 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. " I see the valleys, Spain ! where thy mighty rivers run, And the hills that lift thy harvests and vine- yards 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 pome- granate near, 72 BRYANT'S POEMS, And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me here. " Fair — fair — but fallen Spain ! 'tis with a swelling 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. Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent feast, And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pampered lord and priest. " 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 dark- ness of the ground ; And, to my mountain cell, the voices of the free Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thun- ders of the sea." MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 73 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 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, 74 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 cliff's, 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 Hghtning, 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. The paradise he made unto himself. Mining the soil for ages. On each side The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond, MONUMENT MO UNTAIN. 7 5 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 morahty 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 hke the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, 76 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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, 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 MONUMENT MO UNTAIN 7 7 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 walk 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, 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 yS BRYANTS POEMS. 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, Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day The mountain where the hapless niaiden died Is called the Mountain of the Monument. SONG OF MARION'S MEN 79 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 ; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind. And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. 8o BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 ghtter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide Across the moonlight plains ; 'Tis 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, THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 8 1 Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band, With kindliest welcoming. With smiles hke 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. 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. 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 the mighty heart, That strong arm — strong no longer now. 82 BR YANT' S POEMS. Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, Of God's own image ; let them rest. Till not a trace shall speak of where The awful hkeness 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. 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. THE HURRICANE. %l 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 ! 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. 84 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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, 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 ? — 'tis 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, FAIREST OF RURAL MAIDS. 85 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 off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane. "OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS." 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. 86 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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 has 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 ENTRANCE TO A WOOD. %"] 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 That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks them- selves. 88 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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. TO A MOSQUITO. 89 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, go BR YANT'S POEMS. And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay. 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 songs 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 trans- parent skin. Oh, these were sights to touch an anchorite ! What ! (io 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. TO A MOSQUITO. 9 1 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 ! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime — But shun the sacrilege another time. That bloom was made to look at, not to touch, To worship, not approach, that radiant white ; And well might sudden vengeance Hght on such As dared, Uke thee, most impiously to bite. Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and ad- mired. 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 — rthe 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 ; 92 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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, 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. I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG." I BROKE the spell that held me long. The dear, dear witchery of song. I said, the poet'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. JUPITER AND VENUS. 93 Ah, thoughtless ! how could I forget Its causes were around me yet ? For whereso'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 Patiently by the way -side, 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 94 BR YANT'S POEMS. 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 affairs, 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. JUPITER AND VENUS. 95 And make each other wretched ; this calm hour. 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. 96 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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, — TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 97 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. 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, 98 BRYANT'S POEMS, 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. ' "INNOCENT 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. AN INDIAN B URIAL-PLA CE. 99 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 tye, Fair as it is, thou wilt thr(^ 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. 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. lOO BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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. AN INDIAN B URIAL-PLA CE. I O I 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. 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. I02 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. TO A CLOUD. 103 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 unroUing 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 battle-fields and tombs, I04 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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. 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. THE YELLOW VLOLET. 105 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 edges cold. 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 shght 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. I06 BRYANT'S POEMS. And when again the genial hour Awakes the painted tribes of light, I'll not o'erlook the modest flower That made the woods of April bright. "I 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. And deep were my musings in life's early blossom, 'Mid the twilight of mountain groves wan- dering long ; How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full besom, When o'er me descended the spirit of song. / CANNO T FORGET. 1 07 'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened To the rush of the pebble-paved river be- tween, Where the kingfisher screamed and gray pre- cipice glistened, All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene ; Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries steahng, From his throne in the depth of that stern solitude, And he breathed through my hps, 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 tiie 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 mountain. In deep lonely glens where the waters com- plain. I08 BRYANT'S POEMS. By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain, I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain. 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. MUTATION. (a sonnet.) 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. ObUvion, 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 : HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 1 09 Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still re- lease His young limbs from the chains that round him press. Weep not that the world changes — did it keep A stable changeless state, 'twere 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 hght 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. no BR YANT'S POEMS. 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 There, at morti's rosy birth. Thou 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. TWENTY-SECOND DECEMBER. I 1 1 On thy imaltering 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 footsteps 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 should shape his heedful way. 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 ; 112 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. HYMN OF THE WALDENSES. 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. HYMN OF THE WALDENSES. 1 1 3 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. 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 oppressed, And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest. 114 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 o'erflows unbounded space; 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 ! SONG OF THE STARS. I I 5 " 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 their 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. " Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, To weave the dance that measures the years ; Il6 BRYANT'S POEMS. Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent, To the farthest wall of the firmament, — The boundless \asible smile of Him, To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim. "NO 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, WTiere 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 inmates to the sky. BLESSED ARE THEY. II7 "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. 1 1 8 BR YANT'S POEMS. 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. 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 with- ered 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 air, a beauteous sisterhood ? DEA TH OF THE FLO WERS. I 1 9 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. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain. 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 : I20 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 fragrance 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. 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 hfe 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. TO A WATERFOWL. 121 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 soHtary way ? 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. 122 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. Thou'rt 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. Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands. Were trampled by a hurrying crowd. And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle cloud. Ah ! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave- THE BA TTLE-FIELD. I 2 ;: 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 year ; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front and flank and rear. 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 ! 124 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 WINDS. 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 ; THE WINDS. 125 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 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 whirHng fragments out of sight. The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain. To 'scape your wrath ; ye seize and dash them dead. 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 waihng voices, 'midst the tempest's sound, Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread. 126 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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, Andrushedinto 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. O ye wild winds, a mightier Power than yours In chains upon the shore of Europe lies ; The sceptered throng, whose fetters he endures. Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes : THE WINDS. 127 And armed 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. 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. 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, await to hymnings sweet. And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet. Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night. 128 BRYANT'S POEMS. THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. Here we halt our march, and pitch our tent, On the rugged forest ground. And light our fire with the branches rent. By winds from 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. How the bark 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. 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'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep, For the deeds of to-morrow nisrht. THE FUTURE LIFE. I 29 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 ? 130 BRYANT'S POEMS. The love that hved through all 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 ? 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 scroll ; 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. 131 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. 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. 132 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 butter- nut 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. THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. 133 "Well may'st thou join in gladness," he re- plied, "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 ruff around his mottled neck ; Partridge they call him by our northern streams, And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat 'Gamst his barred sides his speckled wings, and made A sound like distant thunder ; slow the strokes At first, then faster and faster, till at length They passed into a murmur and were still. 134 BRYANT'S POEMS. " There hast thou," said my friend, " a fitting type Of human life. 'Tis 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 Hght 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 As if I sat within a helpless bark. By swiftly running waters hurried on To shoot some mighty cliff. 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 I sweep By other banks and the great gulf is near. "Wisely, my sen, while yet thy days are long, And this fair change of seasons passes slow, AN EVENING REVERIE. 1 35 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. AN EVENING REVERIE. (from an unfinished poem.) The summer day is closed — 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 136 BR YANT'S POEMS, Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun ; Flowers of the garden and the waste 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 AN E VENING RE VERIE. 1 3 7 Had wooed ; and it hath heard, from hps which late 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 ht. 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 138 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 rank of pain. Lie they within my path ? Or shall the years Push me, 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, 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. ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. I 39 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 linger here, among the flittering 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 — Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — My thoughts go up the long dim path of years. Back to the earliest days of hberty. 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 I40 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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, 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. ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 141 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 142 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 rest 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. A HYMN OF THE SEA. The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways His restless billows. Thou whose hands have scooped His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy breath. That moved in the beginning o'er his face, Moves o'er it evermore. The obedient waves To its strong motion roll, and rise and fall. Still from that realm of rain thy cloud goes up. As at the first, to water the great earth, And keep her valleys green. A huncJred realms A HYMN OF THE SEA. 1 43 Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind, And in the dropping shower, with gladness hear Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth Over the boundless blue, where joyously The bright crests of innumerable waves Glance to the sun at once, as when the hands Of a great multitude are upward flung In acclamation. I behold the ships GHding from cape to cape, from isle to isle, Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening home From the Old World. It is thy friendly breeze That bears them, with the riches of the land, And treasure of dear hves, till, in the port. The shouting seaman climbs and furls the sail. But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall face The blast that wakes the fury of the sea ? Oh God ! thy justice makes the world turn pale, When on the armed fleet, that royally Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite Some city, or invade some thoughtless realm, Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks Are whirled like chaff upon the waves ; the sails Fly, rent Hke webs of gossamer ; the masts 144 BRYANT'S POEMS. Are snapped asunder ; downward from the decks, Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, Their cruel engines ; and their hosts, arrayed In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks. Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause, A moment, from the bloody work of war. These restless surges eat away the shores Of earth's old continents ; the fertile plain Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down. And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar In the green chambers of the middle sea. Where broadest spread the waters and the line Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work, Creator ! thou dost teach the coral worm To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age. He builds beneath the waters, till, at last. His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check The long wave rolling from the southern pole To break upon Japan. Thou bid'st the fires. That smoulder under ocean, heave on high The new-made mountains, and uplift their peaks, THE STREAM OF LIFE. 1 45 A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird. The birds and wafting billows plant the rifts With herb and tree ; sweet fountains gush ; sweet airs Ripple the living lakes that, fringed with flowers, Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look On thy creation and pronounce it good. Its valleys, glorious with their summer green, Praise thee in silent beauty, and its woods, Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn. THE STREAM OF LIFE. Oh silvery streamlet of the fields. That flowest full and free ! For thee the rains of spring return. The summer dews for thee ; And when thy latest blossoms die In autumn's chilly showers, The winter fountains gush for thee. Till May brings back the flowers. 146 BRYANTS POEMS, Oh Stream of Life ! the violet springs But once beside thy bed ; But one brief summer, on thy path, The dews of heaven are shed. Thy parent fountains shrink away, And close their crystal veins. And where thy glittering current flowed The dust alone remains. MIDSUMMER. (a sonnet.) 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 stream and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth — her thousand plants Are smitten ; 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. GREEN RIVER. 1 47 The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men Drop by the sun-stroke in the populace town : As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and. sent Its deadly breath into the firmament. GREEN RIVER. When breezes are soft and skies are fair, I stedl 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. Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright With coloured 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 148 BRYANTS POEMS. With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone. Oh, lovehest 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 art, thou shunnest 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 With mellow murmur and fairy shout. GREEN RIVER. 149 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 ; And 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. 150 BRYANTS POEMS. A WINTER PIECE. The time has been that these wild soHtudes, 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 A WINTER PIECE. 151 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. 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 152 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 racoon'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 Splendours beyond what gorgeous Summer knows ; Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice ; A WINTER PIECE. I 53 While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach ! The in crusted 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 hght spray, Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, Is studded with its trembhng 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 arbours 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 fairy 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 154 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 With the next sun. From 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, — 'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke Roll up among the maples of the hill. Where 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, HYMN TO DEATH. 155 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 httle-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 forest in his rage. 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, - 156 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 breathest on the lights Of virtue set along the vale of Hfe, 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 : 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 HYMN TO DEATH. 157 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 oppressed And crush the oppressor. When the armed 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, thou dost set thy sudden grasp Upon him, and the links of that strong 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, 158 BRYANTS POEMS. Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet The nations with a rod of iron, and driven Their chariot 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 hfeless, 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 multitudes, the wind Shrieks 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 HYMN TO DEATH. I 59 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 neighbour'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 His conscience to preserve a worthless life. Even while he hugs himself on his escape. Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length. Thy steps o'ertake 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 Hfe Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal, And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reehng-eye. l6o BRYANTS POEMS. 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, And aims to whelm the laws ; ere yet the hour Is come, and the dread sign of murder given. HYMN TO DEATH. l6l 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 for ever. 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 had quite o'errun 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. I 62 BRYANTS POEMS. Alas ! I 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, And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practice best the lenient art. To which thou gavest thy laborious days, And, last, 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, o'erlook, is all I have To offer 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 — REVISITING COUNTRY. 163 Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep Of death is over, and a happier hfe 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 of 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 revery. LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. I STAND upon my native hills again. Broad, round, and green, that in the sum- mer sky With garniture of waving grass and grain, Orchards, and beechen forests, basking he. While deep the sunless glens are scooped be- tween, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams un- seen. I 64 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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 fervours beat, 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 un- seen. MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD. 1 65 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 t As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow Health and refreshment on the world below. "UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD." Upon the mountain's distant head, With trackless snows for ever 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. l66 BRYANTS POEMS. 'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts, And eyes where generous meanings burn, EarHest the hght of hfe departs, But hngers with the cold and stern. 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. And broken gleams of brightness, here and there. Glance through, and leave unwarmed the death-like 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 Hke 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, LOVE AND FOLLY. 1 67 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. 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 Folly vowed to do it then. And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight, So hard he never saw again. 1 68 BRYANTS POEMS. 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, " 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." THE LOVE OF GOD. 1 69 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 aye. 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 evening 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 he ; And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die. 170 BRYANT'S POEMS. 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. 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 hghted 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 : EARTH. 171 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 ! O 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, 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 thy paths awhile. The loye of thee and heaven— and now they sleep 172 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 Laboured, 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 EARTH. 173 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. As if the armed multitudes of dead Stirred in their heavy slumber. 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 That comes from her old dungeons yawning now To the black air, her amphitheatres, Where the dew gathers on the mouldering stones, 174 BRYANTS POEMS. And fanes of banished gods, and open tombs. And roofless palaces, and streets and hearths Of cities dug from their volcanic graves ? I hear a sound of many 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 Came in the hour of weakness, and made fast The yoke that yet is worn, cries out 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. O 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. CATTERSKILL FALLS. 1 75 CATTERSKILL FALLS. Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, From diffs 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. 'Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood, A hundred winters ago, Had wandered over the mighty wood. 176 BRYANTS POEMS, 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 ; 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 ov/n ; 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 ? CATTERSKILL FALLS. I 77 A maiden watching the moon she loves, At the twihght hour, with pensive eyes ? Was that a garment which seemed to gleam Betwixt the eye and the falling stream ? *Tis 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. 'Tis only the torrent — but why that start ? Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart ? 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 shoot with leaf and spray, And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. 178 BRYANTS POEMS. "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 Ukeness 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 glittering 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 ; 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 phan- tom throng. Till those icy turrets are over his head, CATTERSKILL FALLS. I 79 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 ghtter 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. They had found at eve the dreaming one By the base of that icy steep. When over his stiffening limbs begun l8o BRYANTS POEMS. The deadly slumber of frost to creep, And they cherished the pale and breathless form, Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. 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 odours flowing by From clover-field and clumps of pine, This music, thrilling all the sky, From all the morning birds, are thine. Thou fill'st with joy this little one, That leaps and shouts beside me here, Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run Through the dark woods like frighted 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 — LIFE. i8l 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. 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. 1 82 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 fill'st with beauty now. 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 ? THE FOUNTAIN. Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope, Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, With the cool sound of breezes in the beach, 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, THE FOUNTAIN. 183 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. 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. 1 84 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 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, THE FOUNTAIN. 185 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 Mangled by tomahawks. The mighty woods Are still again, the frighted 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 1 86 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 Grew chill, and glistened 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 hill-side ; 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 THE FOUNTAIN. 187 Came loud and shrill the crowing of the cock ; 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 Qi> thy green bank, the woodman of the swamp 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 cool 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 'twere to dwell In such a spot, and be as free as thou. 1 88 BRYANTS POEMS. 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 ? 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 For ever, that the water-plants along Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain Ahght to drink ? Haply shall these green hills Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost 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 ?