Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant

"OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE."

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 shameAnd taunts of scorn they join thy name.For on thy cheeks the glow is spreadThat tints thy morning hills with red;Thy step – the wild-deer's rustling feetWithin thy woods are not more fleet;Thy hopeful eyeIs 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 heartWould rise to throwIts 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 maidsMake bright, like flowers, the valley-shades;What generous menSpring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen; —What cordial welcomes greet the guestBy 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 restFor 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 browShall sit a nobler grace than now.Deep in the brightness of the skiesThe 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.

THE LAND OF DREAMS

A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams,With steeps that hang in the twilight sky,And weltering oceans and trailing streams,That gleam where the dusky valleys lie.But over its shadowy border flowSweet rays from the world of endless morn,And the nearer mountains catch the glow,And flowers in the nearer fields are born.The souls of the happy dead repair,From their bowers of light, to that bordering land,And walk in the fainter glory there,With the souls of the living hand in hand.One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere,From eyes that open on earth no more —One warning word from a voice once dear —How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er!Far off from those hills that shine with day,And fields that bloom in the heavenly galesThe Land of Dreams goes stretching awayTo dimmer mountains and darker vales.There lie the chambers of guilty delight,There walk the spectres of guilty fear,And soft low voices, that float through the night,Are whispering sin in the helpless ear.Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower,Scarce weaned from the love of childish play!The tears on whose cheeks are but the showerThat freshens the blooms of early May!Thine eyes are closed, and over thy browPass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams,And I know, by thy moving lips, that nowThy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams.Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet!O keep where that beam of Paradise falls:And only wander where thou mayst meetThe blessed ones from its shining walls!So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams,With love and peace to this world of strife:And the light which over that border streamsShall lie on the path of thy daily life.

THE BURIAL OF LOVE

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day,Sat where a river rolled away,With calm sad brows and raven hair,And one was pale and both were fair.Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown,Bring forest-blooms of name unknown;Bring budding sprays from wood and wild,To strew the bier of Love, the child.Close softly, fondly, while ye weep,His eyes, that death may seem like sleep,And fold his hands in sign of rest,His waxen hands, across his breast.And make his grave where violets hide,Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,And bluebirds in the misty springOf cloudless skies and summer sing.Place near him, as ye lay him low,His idle shafts, his loosened bow,The silken fillet that aroundHis waggish eyes in sport he wound.But we shall mourn him long, and missHis ready smile, his ready kiss,The patter of his little feet,Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet;And graver looks, serene and high,A light of heaven in that young eye,All these shall haunt us till the heartShall ache and ache – and tears will start.The bow, the band shall fall to dust,The shining arrows waste with rust,And all of Love that earth can claim,Be but a memory and a name.Not thus his nobler part shall dwellA prisoner in this narrow cell;But he whom now we hide from men,In the dark ground, shall live again:Shall break these clods, a form of light,With nobler mien and purer sight,And in the eternal glory stand,Highest and nearest God's right hand.

"THE MAY SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT."

The May sun sheds an amber lightOn 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 woodIn 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 airsThe 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 yearBrings tears of anguish to my eyes;My heart aches when the flowers appear;For then I think of her who liesWithin her grave,Low in her grave.

THE VOICE OF AUTUMN

There comes, from yonder height,A soft repining sound,Where forest-leaves are bright,And fall, like flakes of light,To the ground.It is the autumn breeze,That, lightly floating on,Just skims the weedy leas,Just stirs the glowing trees,And is gone.He moans by sedgy brook,And visits, with a sigh,The last pale flowers that look,From out their sunny nook,At the sky.O'er shouting children fliesThat light October wind,And, kissing cheeks and eyes,He leaves their merry criesFar behind,And wanders on to makeThat soft uneasy soundBy distant wood and lake,Where distant fountains breakFrom the ground.No bower where maidens dwellCan win a moment's stay;Nor fair untrodden dell;He sweeps the upland swell,And away!Mourn'st thou thy homeless state?O soft, repining wind!That early seek'st and lateThe rest it is thy fateNot to find.Not on the mountain's breast,Not on the ocean's shore,In all the East and West:The wind that stops to restIs no more.By valleys, woods, and springs,No wonder thou shouldst grieveFor all the glorious thingsThou touchest with thy wingsAnd must leave.

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 wroughtThe 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 apartNo man of iron mould and bloody hands,Who sought to wreak upon the cowering landsThe 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 madeIts haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May,Yet at the thought of others' pain, a shadeOf sweeter sadness chased the smile away.Nor deem that when the hand that moulders hereWas raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,And armies mustered at the sign, as whenClouds rise on clouds before the rainy East —Gray captains leading bands of veteran menAnd fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gaveThe victory to her who fills this grave:Alone her task was wrought,Alone the battle fought;Through that long strife her constant hope was staidOn God alone, nor looked for other aid.She met the hosts of Sorrow with a lookThat 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 twainThe 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 overcameEvil 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 gateWhat joy was radiant in celestial eyes!How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcome 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 goConsoled 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 fillHeaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory,That ministered to thee, is open still.

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 thereSift 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 daysShall 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 springsTo load the May-wind's restless wings,When, from the orchard-row, he poursIts 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 grassBetrays 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 vineAnd golden orange of the line,The fruit of the apple-tree.The fruitage of this apple-treeWinds and our flag of stripe and starShall 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 seaShall 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-treeA 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 weShall 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 throwThin shadows on the ground below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress the weak and helpless still?What shall the tasks of mercy be,Amid the toils, the strifes, the tearsOf those who live when length of yearsIs wasting this little apple-tree?"Who planted this old apple-tree?"The children of that distant dayThus 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;'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes,On planting the apple-tree."

THE SNOW-SHOWER

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,On the lake below thy gentle eyes;The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,And dark and silent the water lies;And out of that frozen mist the snowIn wavering flakes begins to flow;Flake after flakeThey sink in the dark and silent lake.See how in a living swarm they comeFrom the chambers beyond that misty veil;Some hover awhile in air, and someRush prone from the sky like summer hail.All, dropping swiftly or settling slow,Meet, and are still in the depths below;Flake after flakeDissolved in the dark and silent lake.Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,Come floating downward in airy play,Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowdThat whiten by night the milky way;There broader and burlier masses fall;The sullen water buries them all —Flake after flake —All drowned in the dark and silent lake.And some, as on tender wings they glideFrom their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray,Are joined in their fall, and, side by side,Come clinging along their unsteady way;As friend with friend, or husband with wife,Makes hand in hand the passage of life;Each mated flakeSoon sinks in the dark and silent lake.Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter hasteStream down the snows, till the air is whiteAs, myriads by myriads madly chased,They fling themselves from their shadowy height.The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,What speed they make, with their grave so nigh;Flake after flake,To lie in the dark and silent lake!I see in thy gentle eyes a tear;They turn to me in sorrowful thought;Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear,Who were for a time, and now are not;Like these fair children of cloud and frost,That glisten a moment and then are lost,Flake after flake —All lost in the dark and silent lake.Yet look again, for the clouds divide;A gleam of blue on the water lies;And far away, on the mountain-side,A sunbeam falls from the opening skies,But the hurrying host that flew betweenThe cloud and the water, no more is seen;Flake after flake,At rest in the dark and silent lake.

A RAIN-DREAM

These strifes, these tumults of the noisy world,Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth,And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt,Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend,In what serener mood we look uponThe gloomiest aspects of the elementsAmong the woods and fields! Let us awhile,As the slow wind is rolling up the storm,In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets,Forever shaken by the importunate jarOf commerce, and upon the darkening airLook from the shelter of our rural home.Who is not awed that listens to the Rain,Sending his voice before him? Mighty Rain!The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists;Thy shadow fills the hollow vale; the poolsNo longer glimmer, and the silvery streamsDarken to veins of lead at thy approach.O mighty Rain! already thou art here;And every roof is beaten by thy streams,And, as thou passest, every glassy springGrows rough, and every leaf in all the woodsIs struck, and quivers. All the hill-tops slakeTheir thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields,A thousand fainting gardens, are refreshed;A thousand idle rivulets start to speed,And with the graver murmur of the stormBlend their light voices as they hurry on.Thou fill'st the circle of the atmosphereAlone; there is no living thing abroad,No bird to wing the air nor beast to walkThe field; the squirrel in the forest seeksHis hollow tree; the marmot of the fieldHas scampered to his den; the butterflyHides under her broad leaf; the insect crowds,That made the sunshine populous, lie closeIn their mysterious shelters, whence the sunWill summon them again. The mighty RainHolds the vast empire of the sky alone.I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream,The friendly clouds drop down spring violetsAnd summer columbines, and all the flowersThat tuft the woodland floor, or overarchThe streamlet: – spiky grass for genial June,Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman,And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves.I see these myriad drops that slake the dust,Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blueIn billows on the lake or on the deep,And bearing navies. I behold them changeTo threads of crystal as they sink in earthAnd leave its stains behind, to rise againIn pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child,Thirsty with play, in both his little handsShall take the cool, clear water, raising itTo wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noonHow proudly will the water-lily rideThe brimming pool, o'erlooking, like a queen,Her circle of broad leaves! In lonely wastes,When next the sunshine makes them beautiful,Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drinkAt the replenished hollows of the rock.Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still,All through the starless hours, the mighty RainSmites with perpetual sound the forest-leaves,And beats the matted grass, and still the earthDrinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds —Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks —Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling bee,And brooding bird – drinks for her tender flowers,Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills.A melancholy sound is in the air,A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wailAround my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night;A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud,In the black shadow and the chilly mist,Along the streaming mountain-side, and throughThe dripping woods, and o'er the plashy fields,Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makesThe journey of life alone, and nowhere meetsA welcome or a friend, and still goes onIn darkness. Yet a while, a little while,And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play,And dally with the flowers, and gayly liftThe slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain,And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky,White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

Merrily swinging on brier and weed,Near to the nest of his little dame,Over the mountain-side or mead,Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Snug and safe is that nest of ours,Hidden among the summer flowers.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;White are his shoulders and white his crest.Hear him call in his merry note:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Look, what a nice new coat is mine,Sure there was never a bird so fine.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,Passing at home a patient life,Broods in the grass while her husband sings:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Brood, kind creature; you need not fearThieves and robbers while I am here.Chee, chee, chee.Modest and shy as a nun is she;One weak chirp is her only note.Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,Pouring boasts from his little throat:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Never was I afraid of man;Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!Chee, chee, chee.Six white eggs on a bed of hay,Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!There as the mother sits all day,Robert is singing with all his might:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nice good wife, that never goes out,Keeping house while I frolic about.Chee, chee, chee.Soon as the little ones chip the shell,Six wide mouths are open for food;Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;This new life is likely to beHard for a gay young fellow like me.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln at length is madeSober with work, and silent with care;Off is his holiday garment laid,Half forgotten that merry air:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nobody knows but my mate and IWhere our nest and our nestlings lie.Chee, chee, chee.Summer wanes; the children are grown;Fun and frolic no more he knows;Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;When you can pipe that merry old strain,Robert of Lincoln, come back again.Chee, chee, chee.

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH

Oh, gentle one, thy birthday sun should riseAmid a chorus of the merriest birdsThat ever sang the stars out of the skyIn a June morning. Rivulets should sendA voice of gladness from their winding paths,Deep in o'erarching grass, where playful winds,Stirring the loaded stems, should shower the dewUpon the grassy water. Newly-blownRoses, by thousands, to the garden-walksShould tempt the loitering moth and diligent bee.The longest, brightest day in all the yearShould be the day on which thy cheerful eyesFirst opened on the earth, to make thy hauntsFairer and gladder for thy kindly looks.Thus might a poet say; but I must bringA birthday offering of an humbler strain,And yet it may not please thee less. I holdThat 'twas the fitting season for thy birthWhen March, just ready to depart, beginsTo soften into April. Then we haveThe delicatest and most welcome flowers,And yet they take least heed of bitter windAnd lowering sky. The periwinkle then,In an hour's sunshine, lifts her azure bloomsBeside the cottage-door; within the woodsTufts of ground-laurel, creeping underneathThe leaves of the last summer, send their sweetsUp to the chilly air, and, by the oak,The squirrel-cups, a graceful company,Hide in their bells, a soft aërial blue —Sweet flowers, that nestle in the humblest nooksAnd yet within whose smallest bud is wrappedA world of promise! Still the north wind breathesHis frost, and still the sky sheds snow and sleet;Yet ever, when the sun looks forth again,The flowers smile up to him from their low seats.Well hast thou borne the bleak March day of life.Its storms and its keen winds to thee have beenMost kindly tempered, and through all its gloomThere has been warmth and sunshine in thy heart;The griefs of life to thee have been like snows,That light upon the fields in early spring,Making them greener. In its milder hours,The smile of this pale season, thou hast seenThe glorious bloom of June, and in the noteOf early bird, that comes a messengerFrom climes of endless verdure, thou hast heardThe choir that fills the summer woods with song.Now be the hours that yet remain to theeStormy or sunny, sympathy and love,That inextinguishably dwell withinThy heart, shall give a beauty and a lightTo the most desolate moments, like the glowOf a bright fireside in the wildest day;And kindly words and offices of goodShall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on,Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gatesOf a more genial season, and thy pathBe lost to human eye among the bowersAnd living fountains of a brighter land. March, 1855.

AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY

Already, close by our summer dwelling,The Easter sparrow repeats her song;A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms —The idle blossoms that sleep so long.The bluebird chants, from the elm's long branches,A hymn to welcome the budding year.The south wind wanders from field to forest,And softly whispers, "The Spring is here."Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city,Before those lays from the elm have ceased;The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetlyAs in the air of her native East.Though many a flower in the wood is waking,The daffodil is our doorside queen;She pushes upward the sward already,To spot with sunshine the early green.No lays so joyous as these are warbledFrom wiry prison in maiden's bower;No pampered bloom of the green-house chamberHas half the charm of the lawn's first flower.Yet these sweet sounds of the early season,And these fair sights of its sunny days,Are only sweet when we fondly listen,And only fair when we fondly gaze.There is no glory in star or blossomTill looked upon by a loving eye;There is no fragrance in April breezesTill breathed with joy as they wander by.Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows,The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks,And hollows, green in the sun, are waitingTheir dower of beauty from thy glad looks.

A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR'S EVE

Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay —Stay till the good old year,So long companion of our way,Shakes hands, and leaves us here.Oh stay, oh stay,One little hour, and then away.The year, whose hopes were high and strong,Has now no hopes to wake;Yet one hour more of jest and songFor his familiar sake.Oh stay, oh stay,One mirthful hour, and then away.The kindly year, his liberal handsHave lavished all his store.And shall we turn from where he stands,Because he gives no more?Oh stay, oh stay,One grateful hour, and then away.Days brightly came and calmly went,While yet he was our guest;How cheerfully the week was spent!How sweet the seventh day's rest!Oh stay, oh stay,One golden hour, and then away.Dear friends were with us, some who sleepBeneath the coffin-lid:What pleasant memories we keepOf all they said and did!Oh stay, oh stay,One tender hour, and then away.Even while we sing, he smiles his last,And leaves our sphere behind.The good old year is with the past;Oh be the new as kind!Oh stay, oh stay,One parting strain, and then away.