By William Cullen Bryant (1794 - 1878)

A 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, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influence 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 Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till, at last, they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill’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 with thee. Here is continual worship;—Nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in the 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 great universe.     My heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me—the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die—but see again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses—ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost One of earth’s charms: upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch enemy Death—yea, seats himself Upon the tyrant’s throne,—the sepulchre, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.     There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them;—and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink And tremble and are still. O God! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunder-bolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages; when, at thy call, Uprises the great deep and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities—who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives.

America

OH mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years.         With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name.   For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step—the wild deer’s rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet;         Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky.   Ay, let them rail—those haughty ones, While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heart         Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe.   They know not, in their hate and pride, What virtues with thy children bide; How true, how good, thy graceful maids Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades;         What generous men Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;—   What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the West; How faith is kept, and truth revered, And man is loved, and God is feared,         In woodland homes, And where the ocean border foams.   There ’s freedom at thy gates and rest For Earth’s down-trodden and opprest, A shelter for the hunted head, For the starved laborer toil and bread.         Power, at thy bounds, Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.   Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow Shall sit a nobler grace than now. Deep in the brightness of the skies The thronging years in glory rise,         And, as they fleet, Drop strength and riches at thy feet.   Thine eye, with every coming hour, Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; And when thy sisters, elder born, Would brand thy name with words of scorn,         Before thine eye, Upon their lips the taunt shall die.

From “An Evening Revery”

O THOU great Movement of the Universe, Or Change, or Flight of Time—for ye are one! That bearest, silently, this visible scene Into night’s shadow and the streaming rays Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me? I feel the mighty current sweep me on, Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar The courses of the stars; the very hour He knows when they shall darken or grow bright; Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love, Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife With friends, or shame and general scorn of men— Which who can bear?—or the fierce rack of pain— Lie they within my path? Or shall the years Push 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 working? 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.

In Memory of John Lothrop Motley

SLEEP, Motley, with the great of ancient days, Who wrote for all the years that yet shall be! Sleep with Herodotus, whose name and praise Have reached the isles of earth’s remotest sea; Sleep, while, defiant of the slow decays Of time, thy glorious writings speak for thee, And in the answering heart of millions raise The generous zeal for Right and Liberty. And should the day o’ertake us when, at last, The silence—that, ere yet a human pen Had traced the slenderest record of the past, Hushed the primeval languages of men— Upon our English tongue its spell shall cast, Thy memory shall perish only then.

June

I GAZED upon the glorious sky     And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie     At rest within the ground, ’T were pleasant that, in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune,     And groves a joyous sound, The sexton’s hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.   A cell within the frozen mould,     A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it rolled,     While fierce the tempests beat— Away!—I will not think of these— Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,     Earth green beneath the feet, And be the damp mould gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest.   There through the long, long summer hours,     The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers     Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell;     The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird.   And what if cheerful shouts at noon     Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon     With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothëd lovers walk in sight     Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound.   I know that I no more should see     The season’s glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me,     Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep,     They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb.   These to their softened hearts should bear     The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share     The gladness of the scene; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills,     Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.

My Autumn Walk

ON woodlands ruddy with autumn   The amber sunshine lies; I look on the beauty round me,   And tears come into my eyes.   For the wind that sweeps the meadows   Blows out of the far Southwest, Where our gallant men are fighting,   And the gallant dead are at rest.   The golden-rod is leaning,   And the purple aster waves, In a breeze from the land of battles,   A breath from the land of graves.   Full fast the leaves are dropping   Before that wandering breath; As fast, on the field of battle,   Our brethren fall in death.   Beautiful over my pathway   The forest spoils are shed; They are spotting the grassy hillocks   With purple and gold and red.   Beautiful is the death-sleep   Of those who bravely fight In their country’s holy quarrel,   And perish for the Right.   But who shall comfort the living,   The light of whose homes is gone: The bride that, early widowed,   Lives broken-hearted on;   The matron whose sons are lying   In graves on a distant shore; The maiden, whose promised husband   Comes back from the war no more?   I look on the peaceful dwellings   Whose windows glimmer in sight, With croft and garden and orchard,   That bask in the mellow light;   And I know that, when our couriers   With news of victory come, They will bring a bitter message   Of hopeless grief to some.   Again I turn to the woodlands,   And shudder as I see The mock-grape’s blood-red banner   Hung out on the cedar-tree;   And I think of days of slaughter,   And the night-sky red with flames, On the Chattahoochee’s meadows,   And the wasted banks of the James.   Oh, for the fresh spring-season,   When the groves are in their prime, And far away in the future   Is the frosty autumn-time!   Oh, for that better season,   When the pride of the foe shall yield, And the hosts of God and Freedom   March back from the well-won field;   And the matron shall clasp her first-born   With tears of joy and pride; And the scarred and war-worn lover   Shall claim his promised bride!   The leaves are swept from the branches;   But the living buds are there, With folded flower and foliage,   To sprout in a kinder air. ROSLYN, October, 1864.

O Fairest of the Rural Maids

O FAIREST of the rural maids! Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thine 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.   Thine 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 unprest, Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace, that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there.

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 like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;— Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice:—           Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.     Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 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, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from 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 glides away, the sons of men— The youth in life’s fresh spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man— Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them.     So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

The Antiquity of Freedom

HERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarlëd 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 flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades— Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old— My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of liberty.     O FREEDOM! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven; Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.     Thy birthright was not given by human hands: Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrow on the mountain’s 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, wearing fair and gallant forms To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round 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 Mayst 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 A while 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 unviolated earth, And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

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— Gushed, warm with hope and courage 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.   Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,   The foul and hissing 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 in pain,   And dies among his worshippers.   Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,   When they 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 Conqueror’s Grave

WITHIN this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,   And yet the monument proclaims it not,   Nor round the sleeper’s name hath chisel wrought The emblems of a fame that never dies,— Ivy and amaranth, in a graceful sheaf, Twined with the laurel’s fair, imperial leaf.     A simple name alone,     To the great world unknown, Is graven here, and wild-flowers, rising round, Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,   Lean lovingly against the humble stone.   Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart   No man of iron mould and bloody hands,   Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands The passions that consumed his restless heart; But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,     Gentlest, in mien and mind,     Of gentle womankind, Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame: One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made   Its haunts, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, Yet, at the thought of others’ pain, a shade   Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.   Nor deem that when the hand that moulders here Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,   And armies mustered at the sign, as when Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East—   Gray captains leading bands of veteran men And fiery youths to be the vulture’s feast. Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave The victory to her who fills this grave:     Alone her task was wrought,     Alone the battle fought; Through that long strife her constant hope was stayed On God alone, nor looked for other aid.   She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look   That altered not beneath the frown they wore, And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took,   Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,     And calmly broke in twain     The fiery shafts of pain, And rent the nets of passion from her path.   By that victorious hand despair was slain. With love she vanquished hate and overcame Evil with good, in her Great Master’s name.   Her glory is not of this shadowy state,   Glory that with the fleeting season dies; But when she entered at the sapphire gate   What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! How heaven’s bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!     And He who, long before,     Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; He who returning, glorious, from the grave, Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.   See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;   Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. Oh, gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go   Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear.     Brief is the time, I know,     The warfare scarce begun; Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee,   The victors’ names are yet too few to fill Heaven’s mighty roll; the glorious armory,   That ministered to thee, is open still.

The Death of Slavery

O THOU great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years,   Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield   The scourge that drove the laborer to the field, And turn a stony gaze on human tears,     Thy cruel reign is o’er;     Thy bondmen crouch no more In terror at the menace of thine eye;   For He who marks the bounds of guilty power, Long-suffering, hath heard the captive’s cry,   And touched his shackles at the appointed hour, And lo! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled.   A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent;   Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks;   Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks Send up hosannas to the firmament!     Fields where the bondman’s toil     No more shall trench the soil, Seem now to bask in a serener day;   The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs Of heaven with more caressing softness play,   Welcoming man to liberty like theirs. A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, For the great land and all its coasts are free.   Within that land wert thou enthroned of late,   And they by whom the nation’s laws were made,   And they who filled its judgment-seats, obeyed Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate.     Fierce men at thy right hand,     With gesture of command, Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay;   And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee not, Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay   Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought; While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train, Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign.   Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to shore,   The wrath of Heaven o’ertook thee in thy pride;   Thou sitt’st a ghastly shadow; by thy side Thy once strong arms hang nerveless evermore.     And they who quailed but now     Before thy lowering brow, Devote thy memory to scorn and shame,   And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art. And they who ruled in thine imperial name,   Subdued, and standing sullenly apart, Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign, And shattered at a blow the prisoner’s chain.   Well was thy doom deserved; thou didst not spare   Life’s tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part   Husband and wife, and from the mother’s heart Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer;     Thy inner lair became     The haunt of guilty shame; Thy lash dropped blood; the murderer, at thy side,   Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance due. Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide,   A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, Until the measure of thy sins at last Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast!   Go now, accursed of God, and take thy place   With hateful memories of the elder time,   With many a wasting plague, and nameless crime, And bloody war that thinned the human race;     With the Black Death, whose way     Through wailing cities lay, Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built   The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt—   Death at the stake to those that held them not. Lo! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room.   I see the better years that hasten by   Carry thee back into that shadowy past,   Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast, The graves of those whom thou hast murdered lie.     The slave-pen, through whose door     Thy victims pass no more, Is there, and there shall the grim block remain   At which the slave was sold; while at thy feet Scourges and engines of restraint and pain   Moulder and rust by thine eternal seat. There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes, Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times.

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 sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit’s tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.   Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 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; 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 life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

The Evening Wind

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou     That cool’st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;     Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,     Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!   Nor I alone; a thousand bosoms round     Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound     Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; 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 where the o’ershadowing branches sweep 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 over-spread     His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man’s bed     Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.   Go—but the circle of eternal change,     Which is the life of Nature, shall re-store, 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.

The Flood of Years

A MIGHTY Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years, Among the nations. How the rushing waves Bear all before them! On their foremost edge, And there alone, is Life. The Present there Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, And they who strive, and they who feast, and they Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain— Woodman and delver with the spade—is there, And busy artisan beside his bench, And pallid student with his written roll. A moment on the mounting billow seen, The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. There groups of revellers whose brows are twined With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, And as they raise their flowing cups and touch The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath The waves and disappear. I hear the jar Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth From cannon, where the advancing billow sends Up to the sight long files of armëd men, That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid, Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief Sinks with his followers; the head that wears The imperial diadem goes down beside The felon’s with cropped ear and branded cheek. A funeral-train—the torrent sweeps away Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on; The wail is stifled and the sobbing group Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul! The waters choke the shout and all is still. Lo! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads The hands in prayer—the engulfing wave o’ertakes And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed, A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows; A poet, as he paces to and fro, Murmurs his sounding lines. A while they ride The advancing billow, till its tossing crest Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile On her young babe that smiles to her again; The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieks And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray To glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in hand, Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look Into each other’s eyes. The rushing flood Flings them apart: the youth goes down; the maid With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes, Waits for the next high wave to follow him. An aged man succeeds; his bending form Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen stream Gleam the white locks, and then are seen no more.   Lo! wider grows the stream—a sea-like flood Saps earth’s walled cities; massive palaces Crumble before it; fortresses and towers Dissolve in the swift waters; populous realms Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes Engulfed and lost; their very languages Stifled, and never to be uttered more.   I pause and turn my eyes, and looking back Where that tumultuous flood has been, I see The silent ocean of the Past, a waste Of waters weltering over graves, its shores Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hull Drop away piecemeal; battlemented walls Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipper. There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed The graven legends, thrones of kings o’er-turned, The broken altars of forgotten gods, Foundations of old cities and long streets Where never fall of human foot is heard, On all the desolate pavement. I behold Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far within The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx, Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows That long ago were dust; and all around Strewn on the surface of that silent sea Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks Shorn from dear brows by loving hands, and scrolls O’erwritten, haply with fond words of love And vows of friendship, and fair pages flung Fresh from the printer’s engine. There they lie A moment, and then sink away from sight.   I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, For I behold in every one of these A blighted hope, a separate history Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief That sorrowfully ended, and I think How painfully must the poor heart have beat In bosoms without number, as the blow Was struck that slew their hope and broke their peace.   Sadly I turn and look before, where yet The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers, Or wander among rainbows, fading soon And reappearing, haply giving place To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear Shapes from the idle air—where serpents lift The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth The bony arm in menace. Further on A belt of darkness seems to bar the way Long, low, and distant, where the Life to come Touches the Life that is. The Flood of Years Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must pass That dismal barrier. What is there beyond? Hear what the wise and good have said. Beyond That belt of darkness, still the Years roll on More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. They gather up again and softly bear All the sweet lives that late were over-whelmed And lost to sight, all that in them was good, Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love— The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, Sages and saintly women who have made Their households happy; all are raised and borne By that great current in its onward sweep, Wandering and rippling with caressing waves Around green islands with the breath Of flowers that never wither. So they pass From stage to stage along the shining course Of that bright river, broadening like a sea. As its smooth eddies curl along their way They bring old friends together; hands are clasped In joy unspeakable; the mother’s arms Again are folded round the child she loved And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, Or but remembered to make sweet the hour That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled Or broke are healed forever. In the room Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw The heart, and never shall a tender tie Be broken; in whose reign the eternal Change That waits on growth and action shall proceed With everlasting Concord hand in hand.

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.   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 frost-winds sere   The heavy herbage of the ground, Gathers his annual harvest here,   With roaring like the battle’s sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,   And smoke-streams gushing up the sky; I meet the flames with flames again,   And at my door they cower and die.   Here, from dim woods, the aged past   Speaks solemnly; and I behold The boundless future in the vast   And lonely river, seaward rolled. Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?   Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, And trains the bordering vines, whose blue   Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?   Broad are these streams—my steed obeys,   Plunges, and bears me through the tide. Wide are these woods—I tread the maze   Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day’s last glimmer dies   O’er woody vale and glassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes   That welcome my return at night.

The May Sun Sheds an Amber Light

THE MAY sun sheds an amber light   On new-leaved woods and lawns between; But she who, with a smile more bright,   Welcomed and watched the springing green,         Is in her grave,         Low in her grave.   The fair white blossoms of the wood   In groups beside the pathway stand; But one, the gentle and the good,   Who cropped them with a fairer hand,         Is in her grave,         Low in her grave.   Upon the woodland’s morning airs   The small birds’ mingled notes are flung; But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs,   Once bade me listen while they sung,         Is in her grave,         Low in her grave.   That music of the early year   Brings tears of anguish to my eyes; My heart aches when the flowers appear;   For then I think of her who lies         Within her grave,         Low in her grave.

The Past

THOU unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,     And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.       Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,     And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.       Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,     And last, Man’s Life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.       Thou hast my better years; Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind,     Yielded to thee with tears— The venerable form, the exalted mind.       My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back—yearns with desire intense,     And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.       In vain; thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart;     Nor to the streaming eye Thou giv’st them back—nor to the broken heart.       In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee     Earth’s wonder and her pride Are gathered, as the waters to the sea;       Labors of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,     Love, that midst grief began, And grew with years, and faltered not in death.       Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;     With thee are silent fame, Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.       Thine for a space are they— Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last:     Thy gates shall yet give way, Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!       All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,     Shall then come forth to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime.       They have not perished—no! Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet,     Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul’s apparent seat.       All shall come back; each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again;     Alone shall Evil die, And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.       And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,     And her, who, still and cold, Fills the next grave—the beautiful and young.

The Planting of the Apple-Tree

COME, let us plant the apple-tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care,   And press it o’er them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infant’s feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet;   So plant we the apple-tree.     What plant we in this apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest;   We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower,   When we plant the apple-tree.     What plant we in this apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-wind’s restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors;   A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,   We plant with the apple-tree.     What plant we in this apple-tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky,   While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass,   At the foot of the apple-tree.     And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,   And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine And golden orange of the line,   The fruit of the apple-tree.     The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew;   And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood’s careless day, And long, long hours of summer play,   In the shade of the apple-tree.     Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.   The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh,   In the boughs of the apple-tree.     And time shall waste this apple-tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still?   What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years   Is wasting this little apple-tree?     “Who planted this old apple-tree?” The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them:   “A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; ’T is said he made some quaint old rhymes,   On planting the apple-tree.”

The Poet

THOU, who wouldst wear the name   Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind, And clothe in words of flame   Thoughts that shall live within the general mind! Deem not the framing of a deathless lay The pastime of a drowsy summer day.   But gather all thy powers,   And wreak them on the verse that thou dost weave, And in thy lonely hours,   At silent morning or at wakeful eve, While the warm current tingles through thy veins, Set forth the burning words in fluent strains.   No smooth array of phrase,   Artfully sought and ordered though it be, Which the cold rhymer lays   Upon his page with languid industry, Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed, Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read.   The secret wouldst thou know   To touch the heart or fire the blood at will? Let thine own eyes o’erflow;   Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill; Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past, And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast.   Then should thy verse appear   Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought, Touch the crude line with fear,   Save in the moment of impassioned thought; Then summon back the original glow, and mend The strain with rapture that with fire was penned.   Yet let no empty gust   Of passion find an utterance in thy lay, A blast that whirls the dust   Along the howling street and dies away; But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep, Like currents journeying through the windless deep.   Seek’st thou, in living lays,   To limn the beauty of the earth and sky? Before thine inner gaze   Let all that beauty in clear vision lie; Look on it with exceeding love, and write The words inspired by wonder and delight.   Of tempests wouldst thou sing,   Or tell of battles—make thyself a part Of the great tumult; cling   To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart; Scale, with the assaulting host, the rampart’s height, And strike and struggle in the thickest fight.   So shalt thou frame a lay   That haply may endure from age to age, And they who read shall say:   “What witchery hangs upon this poet’s page! What art is his the written spells to find That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!”

To a Waterfowl

WHITHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue     Thy solitary way?       Vainly the fowler’s eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,     Thy figure floats along.       Seek’st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink     On the chafed ocean side?       There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast— The desert and illimitable air—     Lone wandering, but not lost.       All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,     Though the dark night is near.       And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,     Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest.       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.

To the Fringed Gentian

THOU blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven’s own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night,   Thou comest not when violets lean O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.   Thou waitest late and com’st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frost 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.

BACK | TOC | FORWARD