Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant

THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW

Alice.– One of your old-world stories, Uncle John,Such as you tell us by the winter fire,Till we all wonder it is grown so late.Uncle John.– The story of the witch that ground to deathTwo children in her mill, or will you haveThe tale of Goody Cutpurse?Alice.– Nay now, nay;Those stories are too childish, Uncle John,Too childish even for little Willy here,And I am older, two good years, than he;No, let us have a tale of elves that ride,By night, with jingling reins, or gnomes of the mine,Or water-fairies, such as you know howTo spin, till Willy's eyes forget to wink,And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is,Lays down her knitting.Uncle John.– Listen to me, then.'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago,And long before the great oak at our doorWas yet an acorn, on a mountain's sideLived, with his wife, a cottager. They dweltBeside a glen and near a clashing brook,A pleasant spot in spring, where first the wrenWas heard to chatter, and, among the grass,Flowers opened earliest; but when winter came,That little brook was fringed with other flowers, —White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, that grewIn clear November nights. And, later still,That mountain-glen was filled with drifted snowsFrom side to side, that one might walk across;While, many a fathom deep, below, the brookSang to itself, and leaped and trotted onUnfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward the vale.Alice.– A mountain-side, you said; the Alps, perhaps,Or our own Alleghanies.Uncle John.—Not so fast,My young geographer, for then the Alps,With their broad pastures, haply were untrodOf herdsman's foot, and never human voiceHad sounded in the woods that overhangOur Alleghany's streams. I think it wasUpon the slopes of the great Caucasus,Or where the rivulets of AraratSeek the Armenian vales. That mountain roseSo high, that, on its top, the winter-snowWas never melted, and the cottagersAmong the summer-blossoms, far below,Saw its white peaks in August from their door.One little maiden, in that cottage-home,Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb,Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there,Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean-waves,And sometimes she forgot what she was bid,As Alice does.Alice.– Or Willy, quite as oft.Uncle John.– But you are older, Alice, two good years,And should be wiser. Eva was the nameOf this young maiden, now twelve summers old.Now you must know that, in those early times,When autumn days grew pale, there came a troopOf childlike forms from that cold mountain-top;With trailing garments through the air they came,Or walked the ground with girded loins, and threwSpangles of silvery frost upon the grass,And edged the brooks with glistening parapets,And built it crystal bridges, touched the pool,And turned its face to glass, or, rising thence,They shook from their full laps the soft, light snow,And buried the great earth, as autumn windsBury the forest-floor in heaps of leaves.A beautiful race were they, with baby brows,And fair, bright locks, and voices like the soundOf steps on the crisp snow, in which they talkedWith man, as friend with friend. A merry sightIt was, when, crowding round the traveller,They smote him with their heaviest snow-flakes, flungNeedles of frost in handfuls at his cheeks,And, of the light wreaths of his smoking breath,Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, and laughedTheir slender laugh to see him wink and grinAnd make grim faces as he floundered on.But, when the spring came on, what terror reignedAmong these Little People of the Snow!To them the sun's warm beams were shafts of fire,And the soft south-wind was the wind of death.Away they flew, all with a pretty scowlUpon their childish faces, to the north,Or scampered upward to the mountain's top,And there defied their enemy, the Spring;Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks,And moulding little snow-balls in their palms,And rolling them, to crush her flowers below,Down the steep snow-fields.Alice.– That, too, must have beenA merry sight to look at.Uncle John.– You are right,But I must speak of graver matters now.Midwinter was the time, and Eva stood,Within the cottage, all prepared to dareThe outer cold, with ample furry robeClose-belted round her waist, and boots of fur,And a broad kerchief, which her mother's handHad closely drawn about her ruddy cheek."Now, stay not long abroad," said the good dame,"For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well,Go not upon the snow beyond the spotWhere the great linden bounds the neighboring field."The little maiden promised, and went forth,And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm with frostBeneath her feet, and slid, with balancing arms,Into the hollows. Once, as up a driftShe slowly rose, before her, in the way,She saw a little creature, lily-cheeked,With flowing flaxen locks, and faint blue eyes,That gleamed like ice, and robe that only seemedOf a more shadowy whiteness than her cheek.On a smooth bank she sat.Alice.– She must have beenOne of your Little People of the Snow.Uncle John.– She was so, and, as Eva now drew near,The tiny creature bounded from her seat;"And come," she said, "my pretty friend; to-dayWe will be playmates. I have watched thee long,And seen how well thou lov'st to walk these drifts,And scoop their fair sides into little cells,And carve them with quaint figures, huge-limbed men,Lions, and griffins. We will have, to-day,A merry ramble over these bright fields,And thou shalt see what thou hast never seen."On went the pair, until they reached the boundWhere the great linden stood, set deep in snow,Up to the lower branches. "Here we stop,"Said Eva, "for my mother has my wordThat I will go no farther than this tree."Then the snow-maiden laughed: "And what is this?This fear of the pure snow, the innocent snow,That never harmed aught living? Thou mayst roamFor leagues beyond this garden, and returnIn safety; here the grim wolf never prowls,And here the eagle of our mountain-cragsPreys not in winter. I will show the way,And bring thee safely home. Thy mother, sure,Counselled thee thus because thou hadst no guide."By such smooth words was Eva won to breakHer promise, and went on with her new friend,Over the glistening snow and down a bankWhere a white shelf, wrought by the eddying wind,Like to a billow's crest in the great sea,Curtained an opening. "Look, we enter here."And straight, beneath the fair o'erhanging fold,Entered the little pair that hill of snow,Walking along a passage with white walls,And a white vault above where snow-stars shedA wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe,And held her peace, but the snow-maiden smiled,And talked and tripped along, as down the way,Deeper they went into that mountainous drift.And now the white walls widened, and the vaultSwelled upward, like some vast cathedral-dome,Such as the Florentine, who bore the nameOf heaven's most potent angel, reared, long since,Or the unknown builder of that wondrous fane,The glory of Burgos. Here a garden lay,In which the Little People of the SnowWere wont to take their pastime when their tasksUpon the mountain's side and in the cloudsWere ended. Here they taught the silent frostTo mock, in stem and spray, and leaf and flower,The growths of summer. Here the palm uprearedIts white columnar trunk and spotless sheafOf plume-like leaves; here cedars, huge as thoseOf Lebanon, stretched far their level boughs,Yet pale and shadowless; the sturdy oakStood, with its huge gnarled roots of seeming strength,Fast anchored in the glistening bank; light spraysOf myrtle, roses in their bud and bloom,Drooped by the winding walks; yet all seemed wroughtOf stainless alabaster; up the treesRan the lithe jessamine, with stalk and leafColorless as her flowers. "Go softly on,"Said the snow-maiden; "touch not, with thy hand,The frail creation round thee, and bewareTo sweep it with thy skirts. Now look above.How sumptuously these bowers are lighted upWith shifting gleams that softly come and go!These are the northern lights, such as thou seestIn the midwinter nights, cold, wandering flames,That float with our processions, through the air;And here, within our winter palaces,Mimic the glorious daybreak." Then she toldHow, when the wind, in the long winter nights,Swept the light snows into the hollow dell,She and her comrades guided to its placeEach wandering flake, and piled them quaintly up,In shapely colonnade and glistening arch,With shadowy aisles between, or bade them grow,Beneath their little hands, to bowery walksIn gardens such as these, and, o'er them all,Built the broad roof. "But thou hast yet to seeA fairer sight," she said, and led the wayTo where a window of pellucid iceStood in the wall of snow, beside their path."Look, but thou mayst not enter." Eva looked,And lo! a glorious hall, from whose high vaultStripes of soft light, ruddy and delicate green,And tender blue, flowed downward to the floorAnd far around, as if the aërial hosts,That march on high by night, with beamy spears,And streaming banners, to that place had broughtTheir radiant flags to grace a festival.And in that hall a joyous multitudeOf these by whom its glistening walls were reared,Whirled in a merry dance to silvery sounds,That rang from cymbals of transparent ice,And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful touchOf little fingers. Round and round they flew,As when, in spring, about a chimney-top,A cloud of twittering swallows, just returned,Wheel round and round, and turn and wheel again,Unwinding their swift track. So rapidlyFlowed the meandering stream of that fair dance,Beneath that dome of light. Bright eyes that lookedFrom under lily-brows, and gauzy scarfsSparkling like snow-wreaths in the early sun,Shot by the window in their mazy whirl.And there stood Eva, wondering at the sightOf those bright revellers and that graceful sweepOf motion as they passed her; – long she gazed,And listened long to the sweet sounds that thrilledThe frosty air, till now the encroaching coldRecalled her to herself. "Too long, too longI linger here," she said, and then she sprangInto the path, and with a hurried stepFollowed it upward. Ever by her sideHer little guide kept pace. As on they went,Eva bemoaned her fault: "What must they think —The dear ones in the cottage, while so long,Hour after hour, I stay without? I knowThat they will seek me far and near, and weepTo find me not. How could I, wickedly,Neglect the charge they gave me?" As she spoke,The hot tears started to her eyes; she kneltIn the mid-path. "Father! forgive this sin;Forgive myself I cannot" – thus she prayed,And rose and hastened onward. When, at last,They reached the outer air, the clear north breathedA bitter cold, from which she shrank with dread,But the snow-maiden bounded as she feltThe cutting blast, and uttered shouts of joy,And skipped, with boundless glee, from drift to drift,And danced round Eva, as she labored upThe mounds of snow. "Ah me! I feel my eyesGrow heavy," Eva said; "they swim with sleep;I cannot walk for utter weariness,And I must rest a moment on this bank,But let it not be long." As thus she spoke,In half formed words, she sank on the smooth snow,With closing lids. Her guide composed the robeAbout her limbs, and said: "A pleasant spotIs this to slumber in; on such a couchOft have I slept away the winter night,And had the sweetest dreams." So Eva slept,But slept in death; for when the power of frostLocks up the motions of the living frame,The victim passes to the realm of DeathThrough the dim porch of Sleep. The little guide,Watching beside her, saw the hues of lifeFade from the fair smooth brow and rounded cheek,As fades the crimson from a morning cloud,Till they were white as marble, and the breathHad ceased to come and go, yet knew she notAt first that this was death. But when she markedHow deep the paleness was, how motionlessThat once lithe form, a fear came over her.She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked her robe,And shouted in her ear, but all in vain;The life had passed away from those young limbs.Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing cry,Such as the dweller in some lonely wild,Sleepless through all the long December night,Hears when the mournful East begins to blow.But suddenly was heard the sound of steps,Grating on the crisp snow; the cottagersWere seeking Eva; from afar they sawThe twain, and hurried toward them. As they cameWith gentle chidings ready on their lips,And marked that deathlike sleep, and heard the taleOf the snow-maiden, mortal anguish fellUpon their hearts, and bitter words of griefAnd blame were uttered: "Cruel, cruel one,To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel we,Who suffered her to wander forth aloneIn this fierce cold!" They lifted the dear child,And bore her home and chafed her tender limbs,And strove, by all the simple arts they knew,To make the chilled blood move, and win the breathBack to her bosom; fruitlessly they strove;The little maid was dead. In blank despairThey stood, and gazed at her who never moreShould look on them. "Why die we not with her?"They said; "without her, life is bitterness."Now came the funeral-day; the simple folkOf all that pastoral region gathered roundTo share the sorrow of the cottagers.They carved a way into the mound of snowTo the glen's side, and dug a little graveIn the smooth slope, and, following the bier,In long procession from the silent door,Chanted a sad and solemn melody:"Lay her away to rest within the ground.Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent lifeWas spotless as these snows; for she was rearedIn love, and passed in love life's pleasant spring,And all that now our tenderest love can doIs to give burial to her lifeless limbs."They paused. A thousand slender voices round,Like echoes softly flung from rock and hill,Took up the strain, and all the hollow airSeemed mourning for the dead; for, on that day,The Little People of the Snow had come,From mountain-peak, and cloud, and icy hall,To Eva's burial. As the murmur died,The funeral-train renewed the solemn chant:"Thou, Lord, hast taken her to be with Eve,Whose gentle name was given her. Even so,For so Thy wisdom saw that it was bestFor her and us. We bring our bleeding hearts,And ask the touch of healing from Thy hand,As, with submissive tears, we render backThe lovely and beloved to Him who gave."They ceased. Again the plaintive murmur rose.From shadowy skirts of low-hung cloud it came,And wide white fields, and fir-trees capped with snow,Shivering to the sad sounds. They sank awayTo silence in the dim-seen distant woods.The little grave was closed; the funeral-trainDeparted; winter wore away; the SpringSteeped, with her quickening rains, the violet-tufts,By fond hands planted where the maiden slept.But, after Eva's burial, never moreThe Little People of the Snow were seenBy human eye, nor ever human earHeard from their lips articulate speech again;For a decree went forth to cut them off,Forever, from communion with mankind.The winter-clouds, along the mountain-side,Rolled downward toward the vale, but no fair formLeaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens,And aged woods, under snow-loaded pines,Where once they made their haunt, was emptiness.But ever, when the wintry days drew near,Around that little grave, in the long night,Frost-wreaths were laid and tufts of silvery rimeIn shape like blades and blossoms of the field,As one would scatter flowers upon a bier.

THE POET

Thou, who wouldst wear the nameOf poet mid thy brethren of mankind,And clothe in words of flameThoughts that shall live within the general mind!Deem not the framing of a deathless layThe 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 laysUpon 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 knowTo 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 appearHalting 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 mendThe strain with rapture that with fire was penned.Yet let no empty gustOf passion find an utterance in thy lay,A blast that whirls the dustAlong 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 gazeLet all that beauty in clear vision lie;Look on it with exceeding love, and writeThe words inspired by wonder and delight.Of tempests wouldst thou sing,Or tell of battles – make thyself a partOf the great tumult; clingTo 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 layThat 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 findThat sway from mood to mood the willing mind!"

THE PATH

The path we planned beneath October's sky,Along the hillside, through the woodland shade,Is finished; thanks to thee, whose kindly eyeHas watched me, as I plied the busy spade;Else had I wearied, ere this path of oursHad pierced the woodland to its inner bowers.Yet, 'twas a pleasant toil to trace and beat,Among the glowing trees, this winding way,While the sweet autumn sunshine, doubly sweet,Flushed with the ruddy foliage, round us lay,As if some gorgeous cloud of morning stood,In glory, mid the arches of the wood.A path! what beauty does a path bestowEven on the dreariest wild! its savage nooksSeem homelike where accustomed footsteps go,And the grim rock puts on familiar looks.The tangled swamp, through which a pathway strays,Becomes a garden with strange flowers and sprays.See from the weedy earth a rivulet breakAnd purl along the untrodden wilderness;There the shy cuckoo comes his thirst to slake,There the shrill jay alights his plumes to dress;And there the stealthy fox, when morn is gray,Laps the clear stream and lightly moves away.But let a path approach that fountain's brink,And nobler forms of life, behold! are there:Boys kneeling with protruded lips to drink,And slender maids that homeward slowly bearThe brimming pail, and busy dames that layTheir webs to whiten in the summer ray.Then know we that for herd and flock are pouredThose pleasant streams that o'er the pebbles slip;Those pure sweet waters sparkle on the board;Those fresh cool waters wet the sick man's lip;Those clear bright waters from the font are shed,In dews of baptism, on the infant's head.What different steps the rural footway trace!The laborer afield at early day;The schoolboy sauntering with uneven pace;The Sunday worshipper in fresh array;And mourner in the weeds of sorrow drest;And, smiling to himself, the wedding guest.There he who cons a speech and he who humsHis yet unfinished verses, musing walk.There, with her little brood, the matron comes,To break the spring flower from its juicy stalk;And lovers, loitering, wonder that the moonHas risen upon their pleasant stroll so soon.Bewildered in vast woods, the traveller feelsHis heavy heart grow lighter, if he meetThe traces of a path, and straight he kneels,And kisses the dear print of human feet,And thanks his God, and journeys without fear,For now he knows the abodes of men are near.Pursue the slenderest path across a lawn:Lo! on the broad highway it issues forth,And, blended with the greater track, goes on,Over the surface of the mighty earth,Climbs hills and crosses vales, and stretches far,Through silent forests, toward the evening star —And enters cities murmuring with the feetOf multitudes, and wanders forth again,And joins the climes of frost to climes of heat,Binds East to West, and marries main to main,Nor stays till at the long-resounding shoreOf the great deep, where paths are known no more.Oh, mighty instinct, that dost thus uniteEarth's neighborhoods and tribes with friendly bands,What guilt is theirs who, in their greed or spite,Undo thy holy work with violent hands,And post their squadrons, nursed in war's grim trade,To bar the ways for mutual succor made!

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS

I hear, from many a little throat,A warble interrupted long;I hear the robin's flute-like note,The bluebird's slenderer song.Brown meadows and the russet hill,Not yet the haunt of grazing herds,And thickets by the glimmering rill,Are all alive with birds.Oh choir of spring, why come so soon?On leafless grove and herbless lawnWarm lie the yellow beams of moon;Yet winter is not gone.For frost shall sheet the pools again;Again the blustering East shall blow —Whirl a white tempest through the glen,And load the pines with snow.Yet, haply, from the region where,Waked by an earlier spring than here,The blossomed wild-plum scents the air,Ye come in haste and fear.For there is heard the bugle-blast,The booming gun, the jarring drum,And on their chargers, spurring fast,Armed warriors go and come.There mighty hosts have pitched the campIn valleys that were yours till then,And Earth has shuddered to the trampOf half a million men!In groves where once ye used to sing,In orchards where ye had your birth,A thousand glittering axes swingTo smite the trees to earth.Ye love the fields by ploughmen trod;But there, when sprouts the beechen spray,The soldier only breaks the sodTo hide the slain away.Stay, then, beneath our ruder sky;Heed not the storm-clouds rising black,Nor yelling winds that with them fly;Nor let them fright you back, —Back to the stifling battle-cloud,To burning towns that blot the day,And trains of mounting dust that shroudThe armies on their way.Stay, for a tint of green shall creepSoon o'er the orchard's grassy floor,And from its bed the crocus peepBeside the housewife's door.Here build, and dread no harsher sound,To scare you from the sheltering tree,Than winds that stir the branches round,And murmur of the bee.And we will pray that, ere againThe flowers of autumn bloom and die,Our generals and their strong-armed menMay lay their weapons by.Then may ye warble, unafraid,Where hands, that wear the fetter now,Free as your wings shall ply the spade,And guide the peaceful plough.Then, as our conquering hosts return,What shouts of jubilee shall breakFrom placid vale and mountain stern,And shore of mighty lake!And midland plain and ocean-strandShall thunder: "Glory to the brave,Peace to the torn and bleeding land,And freedom to the slave!" March, 1864.

"HE HATH PUT ALL THINGS UNDER HIS FEET."

O North, with all thy vales of green!O South, with all thy palms!From peopled towns and fields betweenUplift the voice of psalms;Raise, ancient East, the anthem high,And let the youthful West reply.Lo! in the clouds of heaven appearsGod's well-belovèd Son;He brings a train of brighter years:His kingdom is begun.He comes, a guilty world to blessWith mercy, truth, and righteousness.Oh, Father! haste the promised hourWhen, at His feet, shall lieAll rule, authority, and power,Beneath the ample sky;When He shall reign from pole to pole,The lord of every human soul;When all shall heed the words He saidAmid their daily cares,And, by the loving life He led,Shall seek to pattern theirs;And He, who conquered Death, shall winThe nobler conquest over Sin.

MY AUTUMN WALK

On woodlands ruddy with autumnThe amber sunshine lies;I look on the beauty round me,And tears come into my eyes.For the wind that sweeps the meadowsBlows 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 wavesIn a breeze from the land of battles,A breath from the land of graves.Full fast the leaves are droppingBefore that wandering breath;As fast, on the field of battle,Our brethren fall in death.Beautiful over my pathwayThe forest spoils are shed;They are spotting the grassy hillocksWith purple and gold and red.Beautiful is the death-sleepOf those who bravely fightIn 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 lyingIn graves on a distant shore;The maiden, whose promised husbandComes back from the war no more?I look on the peaceful dwellingsWhose windows glimmer in sight,With croft and garden and orchard,That bask in the mellow light;And I know that, when our couriersWith news of victory come,They will bring a bitter messageOf hopeless grief to some.Again I turn to the woodlands,And shudder as I seeThe mock-grape's blood-red banner42Hung 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 futureIs the frosty autumn-time!Oh, for that better season,When the pride of the foe shall yield,And the hosts of God and FreedomMarch back from the well-won field;And the matron shall clasp her first-bornWith tears of joy and pride;And the scarred and war-worn loverShall 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. October, 1864.