Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant

A LIFETIME

I sit in the early twilight,And, through the gathering shade,I look on the fields around meWhere yet a child I played.And I peer into the shadows,Till they seem to pass away,And the fields and their tiny brookletLie clear in the light of day.A delicate child and slender,With lock of light-brown hair,From knoll to knoll is leapingIn the breezy summer air.He stoops to gather blossomsWhere the running waters shine;And I look on him with wonder,His eyes are so like mine.I look till the fields and brookletSwim like a vision by,And a room in a lowly dwellingLies clear before my eye.There stand, in the clean-swept fireplace,Fresh boughs from the wood in bloom,And the birch-tree's fragrant branchesPerfume the humble room.And there the child is standingBy a stately lady's knee,And reading of ancient peoplesAnd realms beyond the sea:Of the cruel King of EgyptWho made God's people slaves,And perished, with all his army,Drowned in the Red Sea waves;Of Deborah who musteredHer brethren long oppressed,And routed the heathen army,And gave her people rest;And the sadder, gentler storyHow Christ, the crucified,With a prayer for those who slew him,Forgave them as he died.I look again, and there risesA forest wide and wild,And in it the boy is wandering,No longer a little child.He murmurs his own rude versesAs he roams the woods alone;And again I gaze with wonder,His eyes are so like my own.I see him next in his chamber,Where he sits him down to writeThe rhymes he framed in his ramble,And he cons them with delight.A kindly figure enters,A man of middle age,And points to a line just written,And 'tis blotted from the page.And next, in a hall of justice,Scarce grown to manly years,Mid the hoary-headed wranglersThe slender youth appears.With a beating heart he rises,And with a burning cheek,And the judges kindly listenTo hear the young man speak.Another change, and I see himApproach his dwelling-place,Where a fair-haired woman meets him,With a smile on her young face —A smile that spreads a sunshineOn lip and cheek and brow;So sweet a smile there is notIn all the wide earth now.She leads by the hand their first-born,A fair-haired little one,And their eyes as they meet him sparkleLike brooks in the morning sun.Another change, and I see himWhere the city's ceaseless coilSends up a mighty murmurFrom a thousand modes of toil.And there, mid the clash of presses,He plies the rapid penIn the battles of opinion,That divide the sons of men.I look, and the clashing pressesAnd the town are seen no more,But there is the poet wanderingA strange and foreign shore.He has crossed the mighty oceanTo realms that lie afar,In the region of ancient story,Beneath the morning star.And now he stands in wonderOn an icy Alpine height;Now pitches his tent in the desertWhere the jackal yells at night;Now, far on the North Sea islands,Sees day on the midnight sky,Now gathers the fair strange fruitageWhere the isles of the Southland lie.I see him again at his dwelling,Where, over the little lake,The rose-trees droop in their beautyTo meet the image they make.Though years have whitened his temples,His eyes have the first look still,Save a shade of settled sadness,A forecast of coming ill.For in that pleasant dwelling,On the rack of ceaseless pain,Lies she who smiled so sweetly,And prays for ease in vain.And I know that his heart is breaking,When, over those dear eyes,The darkness slowly gathers,And the loved and loving dies.A grave is scooped on the hillsideWhere often, at eve or morn,He lays the blooms of the garden —He, and his youngest born.And well I know that a brightnessFrom his life has passed away,And a smile from the green earth's beauty,And a glory from the day.But I behold, above him,In the far blue deeps of air,Dim battlements shining faintly,And a throng of faces there;See over crystal barrierThe airy figures bend,Like those who are watching and waitingThe coming of a friend.And one there is among them,With a star upon her brow,In her life a lovely woman,A sinless seraph now.I know the sweet calm features;The peerless smile I know,And I stretch my arms with transportFrom where I stand below.And the quick tears drown my eyelids,But the airy figures fade,And the shining battlements darkenAnd blend with the evening shade.I am gazing into the twilightWhere the dim-seen meadows lie,And the wind of night is swayingThe trees with a heavy sigh.

THE TWO TRAVELLERS

'Twas evening, and before my eyesThere lay a landscape gray and dim —Fields faintly seen and twilight skies,And clouds that hid the horizon's brim.I saw – or was it that I dreamed?A waking dream? – I cannot say,For every shape as real seemedAs those which meet my eyes to-day.Through leafless shrubs the cold wind hissed;The air was thick with falling snow,And onward, through the frozen mist,I saw a weary traveller go.Driven o'er the landscape, bare and bleak,Before the whirling gusts of air,The snow-flakes smote his withered cheek,And gathered on his silver hair.Yet on he fared through blinding snows,And murmuring to himself he said:"The night is near; the darkness grows,And higher rise the drifts I tread."Deep, deep, each autumn flower they hide;Each tuft of green they whelm from sight;And they who journeyed by my side,Are lost in the surrounding night."I loved them; oh, no words can tellThe love that to my friends I bore;They left me with the sad farewellOf those who part to meet no more."And I, who face this bitter windAnd o'er these snowy hillocks creep,Must end my journey soon, and findA frosty couch, a frozen sleep."As thus he spoke, a thrill of painShot to my heart – I closed my eyes;But when I opened them again,I started with a glad surprise.'Twas evening still, and in the westA flush of glowing crimson lay;I saw the morrow there, and blestThat promise of a glorious day.The waters, in their glassy sleep,Shone with the hues that tinged the sky,And rugged cliff and barren steepGleamed with the brightness from on high.And one was there whose journey layInto the slowly-gathering night;With steady step he held his way,O'er shadowy vale and gleaming height.I marked his firm though weary tread,The lifted eye and brow serene;And saw no shade of doubt or dreadPass o'er that traveller's placid mien.And others came, their journey o'er,And bade good-night, with words of cheer:"To-morrow we shall meet once more;'Tis but the night that parts us here.""And I," he said, "shall sleep ere long;These fading gleams will soon be gone;Shall sleep to rise refreshed and strongIn the bright day that yet will dawn."I heard; I watched him as he went,A lessening form, until the lightOf evening from the firmamentHad passed, and he was lost to sight.

CHRISTMAS IN 1875

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A SPANIARDNo trumpet-blast profanedThe hour in which the Prince of Peace was born;No bloody streamlet stainedEarth's silver rivers on that sacred morn;But, o'er the peaceful plain,The war-horse drew the peasant's loaded wain.The soldier had laid byThe sword and stripped the corselet from his breast,And hung his helm on high —The sparrow's winter home and summer nest;And, with the same strong handThat flung the barbèd spear, he tilled the land.Oh, time for which we yearn;Oh, sabbath of the nations long foretold!Season of peace, return,Like a late summer when the year grows old,When the sweet sunny daysSteeped mead and mountain-side in golden haze.For now two rival kingsFlaunt, o'er our bleeding land, their hostile flags,And every sunrise bringsThe hovering vulture from his mountain-cragsTo where the battle-plainIs strewn with dead, the youth and flower of Spain.Christ is not come, while yetO'er half the earth the threat of battle lowers,And our own fields are wet,Beneath the battle-cloud, with crimson showers —The life-blood of the slain,Poured out where thousands die that one may reign.Soon, over half the earth,In every temple crowds shall kneel againTo celebrate His birthWho brought the message of good-will to men,And bursts of joyous songShall shake the roof above the prostrate throng.Christ is not come, while thereThe men of blood whose crimes affront the skiesKneel down in act of prayer,Amid the joyous strains, and when they riseGo forth, with sword and flame,To waste the land in His most holy name.Oh, when the day shall breakO'er realms unlearned in warfare's cruel arts,And all their millions wakeTo peaceful tasks performed with loving hearts,On such a blessed morn,Well may the nations say that Christ is born.

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 wavesBear all before them! On their foremost edge,And there alone, is Life. The Present thereTosses and foams, and fills the air with roarOf mingled noises. There are they who toil,And they who strive, and they who feast, and theyWho 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 twinedWith roses, ride the topmost swell awhile,And as they raise their flowing cups and touchThe clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneathThe waves and disappear. I hear the jarOf beaten drums, and thunders that break forthFrom cannon, where the advancing billow sendsUp to the sight long files of armèd men,That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke.The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hidSlayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam.Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chiefSinks with his followers; the head that wearsThe imperial diadem goes down besideThe felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek.A funeral-train – the torrent sweeps awayBearers and bier and mourners. By the bedOf one who dies men gather sorrowing,And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on;The wail is stifled and the sobbing groupBorne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout,The cry of an applauding multitude,Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wieldsThe 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 spreadsThe hands in prayer – the engulfing wave o'ertakesAnd swallows them and him. A sculptor wieldsThe chisel, and the stricken marble growsTo beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed,A painter stands, and sunshine at his touchGathers upon his canvas, and life glows;A poet, as he paces to and fro,Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they rideThe advancing billow, till its tossing crestStrikes them and flings them under, while their tasksAre yet unfinished. See a mother smileOn her young babe that smiles to her again;The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieksAnd weeps, and midst her tears is carried down.A beam like that of moonlight turns the sprayTo glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in hand,Rise on the billowy swell and fondly lookInto each other's eyes. The rushing floodFlings them apart: the youth goes down; the maidWith hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes,Waits for the next high wave to follow him.An aged man succeeds; his bending formSinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen streamGleam the white locks, and then are seen no more.Lo! wider grows the stream – a sea-like floodSaps earth's walled cities; massive palacesCrumble before it; fortresses and towersDissolve in the swift waters; populous realmsSwept by the torrent see their ancient tribesEngulfed and lost; their very languagesStifled, and never to be uttered more.I pause and turn my eyes, and looking backWhere that tumultuous flood has been, I seeThe silent ocean of the Past, a wasteOf waters weltering over graves, its shoresStrewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hullDrop away piecemeal; battlemented wallsFrown idly, green with moss, and temples standUnroofed, forsaken by the worshipper.There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawedThe graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned,The broken altars of forgotten gods,Foundations of old cities and long streetsWhere never fall of human foot is heard,On all the desolate pavement. I beholdDim glimmerings of lost jewels, far withinThe sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx,Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite,Once glittering at the banquet on fair browsThat long ago were dust, and all aroundStrewn on the surface of that silent seaAre withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locksShorn from dear brows, by loving hands, and scrollsO'er written, haply with fond words of loveAnd vows of friendship, and fair pages flungFresh from the printer's engine. There they lieA moment, and then sink away from sight.I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes,For I behold in every one of theseA blighted hope, a separate historyOf human sorrows, telling of dear tiesSuddenly broken, dreams of happinessDissolved in air, and happy days too briefThat sorrowfully ended, and I thinkHow painfully must the poor heart have beatIn bosoms without number, as the blowWas struck that slew their hope and broke their peace.Sadly I turn and look before, where yetThe Flood must pass, and I behold a mistWhere swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope,Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers,Or wander among rainbows, fading soonAnd reappearing, haply giving placeTo forms of grisly aspect such as FearShapes from the idle air – where serpents liftThe head to strike, and skeletons stretch forthThe bony arm in menace. Further onA belt of darkness seems to bar the wayLong, low, and distant, where the Life to comeTouches the Life that is. The Flood of YearsRolls toward it near and nearer. It must passThat dismal barrier. What is there beyond?Hear what the wise and good have said. BeyondThat belt of darkness, still the Years roll onMore gently, but with not less mighty sweep.They gather up again and softly bearAll the sweet lives that late were overwhelmedAnd 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 madeTheir households happy; all are raised and borneBy that great current in its onward sweep,Wandering and rippling with caressing wavesAround green islands with the breathOf flowers that never wither. So they passFrom stage to stage along the shining courseOf that bright river, broadening like a sea.As its smooth eddies curl along their wayThey bring old friends together; hands are claspedIn joy unspeakable; the mother's armsAgain are folded round the child she lovedAnd lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now,Or but remembered to make sweet the hourThat overpays them; wounded hearts that bledOr broke are healed forever. In the roomOf this grief-shadowed present, there shall beA Present in whose reign no grief shall gnawThe heart, and never shall a tender tieBe broken; in whose reign the eternal ChangeThat waits on growth and action shall proceedWith everlasting Concord hand in hand.

OUR FELLOW-WORSHIPPERS

Think not that thou and IAre here the only worshippers to day,Beneath this glorious sky,Mid the soft airs that o'er the meadows play;These airs, whose breathing stirsThe fresh grass, are our fellow-worshippers.See, as they pass, they swingThe censers of a thousand flowers that bendO'er the young herbs of spring,And the sweet odors like a prayer ascend,While, passing thence, the breezeWakes the grave anthem of the forest-trees.It is as when, of yore,The Hebrew poet called the mountain-steeps,The forests, and the shoreOf ocean, and the mighty mid-sea deeps,And stormy wind, to raiseA universal symphony of praise.For, lo! the hills around,Gay in their early green, give silent thanks;And, with a joyous sound,The streamlet's huddling waters kiss their banks,And, from its sunny nooks,To heaven, with grateful smiles, the valley looks.The blossomed apple-tree,Among its flowery tufts, on every spray,Offers the wandering beeA fragrant chapel for his matin-lay;And a soft bass is heardFrom the quick pinions of the humming-bird.Haply – for who can tell? —Aerial beings, from the world unseen,Haunting the sunny dell,Or slowly floating o'er the flowery green,May join our worship here,With harmonies too fine for mortal ear.

1

In this poem, written and first printed in the year 1821, the author has endeavored, from a survey of the past ages of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, to justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinies of the human race.

2

The first half of this fragment may seem to the reader borrowed from the essay on Rural Funerals in the fourth number of "The Sketch-book." The lines were, however, written more than a year before that number appeared. The poem, unfinished as it is, would hardly have been admitted into this collection, had not the author been unwilling to lose what had the honor of resembling so beautiful a composition.

3

This poem, written about the time of the horrible butchery of the Sciotes by the Turks, in 1824, has been more fortunate than most poetical predictions. The independence of the Greek nation which it foretold, has come to pass, and the massacre, by inspiring a deeper detestation of their oppressors, did much to promote that event.

4

"The unmarried females have a modest falling down of the hair over the eyes." – Eliot.

5

The mountain called by this name is a remarkable precipice in Great Barrington, overlooking the rich and picturesque valley of the Housatonic, in the western part of Massachusetts. At the southern extremity is, or was a few years since, a conical pile of small stones, erected, according to the tradition of the surrounding country, by the Indians, in memory of a woman of the Stockbridge tribe who killed herself by leaping from the edge of the precipice. Until within a few years past, small parties of that tribe used to arrive from their settlement in the western part of the State of New York, on visits to Stockbridge, the place of their nativity and former residence. A young woman belonging to one of these parties related, to a friend of the author, the story on which the poem of Monument Mountain is founded. An Indian girl had formed an attachment for her cousin, which, according to the customs of the tribe, was unlawful. She was, in consequence, seized with a deep melancholy, and resolved to destroy herself. In company with a female friend, she repaired to the mountain, decked out for the occasion in all her ornaments, and, after passing the day on the summit in singing with her companion the traditional songs of her nation, she threw herself headlong from the rock, and was killed.

6

Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a woody ravine, near a solitary road passing between the mountains west of the village of Stockbridge. It was supposed that the person came to his death by violence, but no traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was only recollected that one evening, in the course of the previous winter, a traveller had stopped at an inn in the village of West Stockbridge: that he had inquired the way to Stockbridge; and that, in paying the innkeeper for something he had ordered, it appeared that he had a considerable sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking men were present, and went out about the same time that the traveller proceeded on his journey. During the winter, also, two men of shabby appearance, but plentifully supplied with money, had lingered for a while about the village of Stockbridge. Several years afterward, a criminal, about to be executed for a capital offence in Canada, confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting the name or residence of the person murdered.

7

The story of the African chief, related in this ballad, may be found in the African Repository for April, 1825. The subject of it was a warrior of majestic stature, the brother of Yarradee, king of the Solima nation. He had been taken in battle, and was brought in chains for sale to the Rio Pongas, where he was exhibited in the market-place, his ankles still adorned with massy rings of gold which he wore when captured. The refusal of his captors to listen to his offers of ransom drove him mad, and he died a maniac.

8

This conjunction was said in the common calendars to have taken place on the 2d of August, 1826. This, I believe, was an error, but the apparent approach of the planets was sufficiently near for poetical purposes.

9

This poem is nearly a translation from one by Jose Maria de Heredia, a native of the island of Cuba, who published at New York, about the year 1825, a volume of poems in the Spanish language.

10

Neither this, nor any of the other sonnets in the collection, with the exception of the one from the Portuguese, is framed according to the legitimate Italian model, which, in the author's opinion, possesses no peculiar beauty for an ear accustomed only to the metrical forms of our own language. The sonnets in this collection are rather poems in fourteen lines than sonnets.

11

Papaya – papaw, custard-apple. Flint, in his excellent work on the Geography and History of the Western States, thus describes this tree and its fruit:

"A papaw-shrub hanging full of fruits, of a size and weight so disproportioned to the stem, and from under long and rich-looking leaves, of the same yellow with the ripened fruit, and of an African luxuriance of growth, is to us one of the richest spectacles that we have ever contemplated in the array of the woods. The fruit contains from two to six seeds like those of the tamarind, except that they are double the size. The pulp of the fruit resembles egg-custard in consistence and appearance. It has the same creamy feeling in the mouth, and unites the taste of eggs, cream, sugar, and spice. It is a natural custard, too luscious for the relish of most people."

Chateaubriand, in his Travels, speaks disparagingly of the fruit of the papaw; but on the authority of Mr. Flint, who must know more of the matter, I have ventured to make my Western lover enumerate it among the delicacies of the wilderness.

12

The prairies of the West, with an undulating surface, rolling prairies, as they are called, present to the unaccustomed eye a singular spectacle when the shadows of the clouds are passing rapidly over them. The face of the ground seems to fluctuate and toss like billows of the sea.

13

I have seen the prairie-hawk balancing himself in the air for hours together, apparently over the same spot; probably watching his prey.

14

The size and extent of the mounds in the valley of the Mississippi indicate the existence, at a remote period, of a nation at once populous and laborious, and therefore probably subsisting by agriculture.

15

Instances ace not wanting of generosity like this among the North American Indians toward a captive or survivor of a hostile tribe on which the greatest cruelties had been exercised.

16

The exploits of General Francis Marion, the famous partisan warrior of South Carolina, form an interesting chapter in the annals of the American Revolution. The British troops were so harassed by the irregular and successful warfare which he kept up at the head of a few daring followers, that they sent an officer to remonstrate with him for not coming into the open field and fighting "like a gentleman and a Christian."

17

Several learned divines, with much appearance of reason, in particular Dr. Lardner, have maintained that the common notion respecting the dissolute life of Mary Magdalen is erroneous, and that she was always a person of excellent character. Charles Taylor, the editor of "Calmet's Dictionary of the Bible" takes the same view of the subject.

The verses of the Spanish poet here translated refer to the "woman who had been a sinner," mentioned in the seventh chapter of St. Luke's Gospel, and who is commonly confounded with Mary Magdalen.

18

This and the following poems belong to that class of ancient Spanish ballads, by unknown authors, called Romances Moriscos– Moriscan Romances or ballads. They were composed in the fourteenth century, some of them, probably, by the Moors, who then lived intermingled with the Christians; and they relate the loves and achievements of the knights of Granada.