Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant

"The foeman trembles in his camp,"

and the tempest in a teapot was over, as far as England was concerned. Not as far as the United States was concerned, however; for when the circumstance became known to Mr. Leggett, he excoriated Mr. Irving for his subserviency to a bloated aristocracy, and so forth. Mr. John Wilson reviewed the book in Blackwood's Magazine in a half-hearted way, patronizing the writer with his praise.

The poems that Mr. Bryant wrote during the first seven years of his residence in New York (some forty in number, not including translations) exhibited the qualities which distinguished his genius from the beginning, and were marked by characteristics which were rather acquired than inherited. In other words, they were somewhat different from those which were written at Great Barrington. The Hellenic element was still visible in "The Greek Partisan" and "The Greek Boy," and the aboriginal element in "The Disinterred Warrior." The large imagination of "The Hymn to the North Star" was radiant in "The Firmament," and in "The Past." Ardent love of nature found expressive utterance in "Lines on Revisiting the Country," "The Gladness of Nature," "A Summer Ramble," "A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson," and "The Evening Wind." The little book of immortal dirges had a fresh leaf added to it in "The Death of the Flowers," which was at once a pastoral of autumn and a monody over a beloved sister. A new element appeared in "The Summer Wind," and was always present afterward in Mr. Bryant's meditative poetry – the association of humanity with nature – a calm but sympathetic recognition of the ways of man and his presence on the earth. The power of suggestion and of rapid generalization, which was the key-note of "The Ages," lived anew in every line of "The Prairies," in which a series of poems present themselves to the imagination as a series of pictures in a gallery – pictures in which breadth and vigor of treatment and exquisite delicacy of detail are everywhere harmoniously blended, and the unity of pure Art is attained. It was worth going to the ends of the world to be able to write "The Prairies."

Confiding in the discretion of his associate Mr. Leggett, and anxious to escape from his daily editorial labors, Mr. Bryant sailed for Europe with his family in the summer of 1834. It was his intention to perfect his literary studies while abroad, and to devote himself to the education of his children; but his intention was frustrated, after a short course of travel in France, Germany, and Italy, by the illness of Mr. Leggett, whose mistaken zeal in the advocacy of unpopular measures had seriously injured the Evening Post. He returned in haste early in 1836, and devoted his time and energies to restoring the prosperity of his paper. Nine years passed before he ventured to return to Europe, though he managed to visit certain portions of his own country. His readers tracked his journeys through the letters which he wrote to the Evening Post, and which were noticeable for justness of observation and clearness of expression. A selection from Mr. Bryant's foreign and home letters was published in 1852, under the title of "Letters of a Traveler."

The life of a man of letters is seldom eventful. There are, of course, exceptions to the rule; for literature, like other polite professions, is never without its disorderly followers. It is instructive to trace their careers, which are usually short ones; but the contemplation of the calm, well-regulated, self-respecting lives of the elder and wiser masters is much more satisfactory. We pity the Maginns, and Mangans, and Poes, whom we have always with us; but we admire and reverence such writers as Wordsworth, and Thackeray, and Bryant, who dignify their high calling. The last thirty years of the life of Mr. Bryant were devoid of incidents, though one of them (1866) was not without the supreme sorrow – death. He devoted himself to journalism as conscientiously as if he still had his spurs to win, discussing all public questions with independence and fearlessness; and from time to time, as the spirit moved him, he added to our treasures of song, contributing to the popular magazines of the period, and occasionally issuing these contributions in separate volumes. He published "The Fountain and Other Poems" in 1842; "The White-Footed Deer and Other Poems" in 1844; a collected edition of his poems, with illustrations by Leutze, in 1846; an edition in two volumes in 1855; "Thirty Poems" in 1866; and in 1876 a complete illustrated edition of his poetical writings. To the honors which these volumes brought him he added fresh laurels in 1870 and 1871 by the publication of his translation of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" – a translation which was highly praised both at home and abroad, and which, if not the best that the English language is capable of, is, in many respects, the best which any English-writing poet has yet produced.

There comes a day in the intellectual lives of most poets when their powers cease to be progressive and productive, or are productive only in the forms to which they have accustomed themselves, and which have become mannerisms. It was not so with Mr. Bryant. He enjoyed the dangerous distinction of proving himself a great poet at an early age; he preserved this distinction to the last, for the sixty-four years which elapsed between the writing of "Thanatopsis" and the writing of "The Flood of Years" witnessed no decay of his poetic capacities, but rather the growth and development of trains of thought and forms of verse of which there was no evidence in his early writings. His sympathies were enlarged as the years went on, and the crystal clearness of his mind was colored with human emotions.

To Bryant, beyond all other modern poets, the earth was a theatre upon which the great drama of life was everlastingly played. The remembrance of this fact is his inspiration in "The Fountain," "An Evening Revery," "The Antiquity of Freedom," "The Crowded Street," "The Planting of the Apple-Tree," "The Night Journey of a River," "The Sower," and "The Flood of Years." The most poetical of Mr. Bryant's poems are, perhaps, "The Land of Dreams," "The Burial of Love," "The May Sun sheds an Amber Light," and "The Voice of Autumn;" and they were written in a succession of happy hours, and in the order named. Next to these pieces, as examples of pure poetry, should be placed "Sella" and "The Little People of the Snow," which are exquisite fairy fantasies. The qualities by which Mr. Bryant's poetry are chiefly distinguished are serenity and gravity of thought; an intense though repressed recognition of the mortality of mankind; an ardent love for human freedom; and unrivaled skill in painting the scenery of his native land. He had no superior in this walk of poetic art – it might almost be said no equal, for his descriptions of nature are never inaccurate or redundant. "The Excursion" is a tiresome poem, which contains several exquisite episodes. Mr. Bryant knew how to write exquisite episodes, and to omit the platitudes through which we reach them in other poets.

It is not given to many poets to possess as many residences as Mr. Bryant, for he had three – a town-house in New York, a country-house, called "Cedarmere," at Roslyn, Long Island, and the old homestead of the Bryant family at Cummington. He passed the winter months in New York, and the summer and early autumn months at his country-houses. No distinguished man in America was better known by sight than he.

"O good gray head that all men knew"

rose unbidden to one's lips as he passed his fellow-pedestrians in the streets of the great city, active, alert, with a springing step and a buoyant gait. He was seen in all weathers, walking down to his office in the morning, and back to his house in the afternoon – an observant antiquity, with a majestic white beard, a pair of sharp eyes, and a face which, noticed closely, recalled the line of the poet:

"A million wrinkles carved his skin."

Mr. Bryant had a peculiar talent, in which the French excel – the talent of delivering discourses upon the lives and writings of eminent men; and he was always in request after the death of his contemporaries.

Beginning with a eulogy on his friend Cole, the painter, who died in 1848, he paid his well-considered tributes to the memory of Cooper and Irving, and assisted at the dedication in the Central Park of the Morse, Shakespeare, Scott, and Halleck monuments. His addresses on those occasions, and others that might be named, were models of justice of appreciation and felicity of expression. His last public appearance was at the Central Park, on the afternoon of May 29, 1878, at the unveiling of a statue to Mazzini. It was an unusually hot day, and after delivering his address, which was remarkable for its eloquence, he accompanied General James Grant Wilson, an acquaintance of some years' standing, to his residence in East Seventy-fourth street. General Wilson reached his door with Mr. Bryant leaning on his arm; he took a step in advance to open the inner door, and while his back was turned the poet fell, striking his head on the stone platform of the front steps. It was his death-blow; for, though he recovered his consciousness sufficiently to converse a little, and was able to ride to his own house with General Wilson, his fate was sealed. He lingered until the morning of the 12th of June, when his capacious spirit passed out into the Unknown. Two days later all that was mortal of him was buried beside the grave of his wife at Roslyn.

Such was the life and such the life-work of William Cullen Bryant.

R. H. STODDARD.

TO THE READER

The poems in this volume follow each other in the order in which they were written, it being believed that this arrangement would be as satisfactory to the reader as any classification founded on the nature of the subjects or their mode of treatment.

POEMS

THE AGES1

IWhen to the common rest that crowns our days,Called in the noon of life, the good man goes,Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, laysHis silver temples in their last repose;When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blowsAnd blights the fairest; when our bitter tearsStream, as the eyes of those that love us close,We think on what they were, with many fearsLest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years.IIAnd therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by,When lived the honored sage whose death we wept,And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye,And beat in many a heart that long has slept —Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped,Are holy; and high-dreaming bards have toldOf times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept,Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed cold —Those pure and happy times – the golden days of old.IIIPeace to the just man's memory; let it growGreener with years, and blossom through the flightOf ages; let the mimic canvas showHis calm benevolent features; let the lightStream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sightOf all but heaven, and in the book of fameThe glorious record of his virtues writeAnd hold it up to men, and bid them claimA palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame.IVBut oh, despair not of their fate who riseTo dwell upon the earth when we withdraw!Lo! the same shaft by which the righteous dies,Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy's lawAnd trode his brethren down, and felt no aweOf Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth,Such as the sternest age of virtue saw,Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forthFrom the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth.VHas Nature, in her calm, majestic march,Faltered with age at last? does the bright sunGrow dim in heaven? or, in their far blue arch,Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done,Less brightly? when the dew-lipped Spring comes on,Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the skyWith flowers less fair than when her reign begun?Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, denyThe plenty that once swelled beneath his sober eye?VILook on this beautiful world, and read the truthIn her fair page; see, every season bringsNew change, to her, of everlasting youth;Still the green soil, with joyous living things,Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings,And myriads, still, are happy in the sleepOf ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flingsThe restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep,In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep.VIIWill then the merciful One, who stamped our raceWith his own image, and who gave them swayO'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face,Now that our swarming nations far awayAre spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day,Forget the ancient care that taught and nursedHis latest offspring? will he quench the rayInfused by his own forming smile at first,And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed?VIIIOh, no! a thousand cheerful omens giveHope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh.He who has tamed the elements, shall not liveThe slave of his own passions; he whose eyeUnwinds the eternal dances of the sky,And in the abyss of brightness dares to spanThe sun's broad circle, rising yet more high,In God's magnificent works his will shall scan —And love and peace shall make their paradise with man.IXSit at the feet of History – through the nightOf years the steps of virtue she shall trace,And show the earlier ages, where her sightCan pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face; —When, from the genial cradle of our race,Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lotTo choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place,Or freshening rivers ran; and there forgotThe truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not.XThen waited not the murderer for the night,But smote his brother down in the bright day,And he who felt the wrong, and had the might,His own avenger, girt himself to slay;Beside the path the unburied carcass lay;The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen,Fled, while the robber swept his flock away,And slew his babes. The sick, untended then,Languished in the damp shade, and died afar from men.XIBut misery brought in love; in passion's strifeMan gave his heart to mercy, pleading long,And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life;The weak, against the sons of spoil and wrong,Banded, and watched their hamlets, and grew strong;States rose, and, in the shadow of their might,The timid rested. To the reverent throng,Grave and time-wrinkled men, with locks all white,Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught the way of right;XIITill bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailedOn men the yoke that man should never bear,And drave them forth to battle. Lo! unveiledThe scene of those stern ages! What is there?A boundless sea of blood, and the wild airMoans with the crimsoned surges that entombCities and bannered armies; forms that wearThe kingly circlet rise, amid the gloom,O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed in its womb.XIIIThose ages have no memory, but they leftA record in the desert – columns strownOn the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft,Heaped like a host in battle overthrown;Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stoneWere hewn into a city; streets that spreadIn the dark earth, where never breath has blownOf heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares treadThe long and perilous ways – the Cities of the Dead!XIVAnd tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled —They perished, but the eternal tombs remain —And the black precipice, abrupt and wild,Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane; —Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustainThe everlasting arches, dark and wide,Like the night-heaven, when clouds are black with rain.But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied,All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride.XVAnd Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reignO'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke;She left the down-trod nations in disdain,And flew to Greece, when Liberty awoke,New-born, amid those glorious vales, and brokeSceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands:As rocks are shivered in the thunder-stroke.And lo! in full-grown strength, an empire standsOf leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands.XVIOh, Greece! thy flourishing cities were a spoilUnto each other; thy hard hand oppressedAnd crushed the helpless; thou didst make thy soilDrunk with the blood of those that loved thee best;And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural breast,Thy just and brave to die in distant climes;Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sighed for restFrom thine abominations; after-times,That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes!XVIIYet there was that within thee which has savedThy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name;The story of thy better deeds, engravedOn fame's unmouldering pillar, puts to shameOur chiller virtue; the high art to tameThe whirlwind of the passions was thy own;And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came,Far over many a land and age has shone,And mingles with the light that beams from God's own throne.XVIIIAnd Rome – thy sterner, younger sister, sheWho awed the world with her imperial frown —Rome drew the spirit of her race from thee,The rival of thy shame and thy renown.Yet her degenerate children sold the crownOf earth's wide kingdoms to a line of slaves;Guilt reigned, and woe with guilt, and plagues came down,Till the North broke its floodgates, and the wavesWhelmed the degraded race, and weltered o'er their graves.XIXVainly that ray of brightness from above,That shone around the Galilean lake,The light of hope, the leading star of love,Struggled, the darkness of that day to break;Even its own faithless guardians strove to slake,In fogs of earth, the pure ethereal flame;And priestly hands, for Jesus' blessed sake,Were red with blood, and charity became,In that stern war of forms, a mockery and a name.XXThey triumphed, and less bloody rites were keptWithin the quiet of the convent-cell;The well-fed inmates pattered prayer, and slept,And sinned, and liked their easy penance well.Where pleasant was the spot for men to dwell,Amid its fair broad lands the abbey lay,Sheltering dark orgies that were shame to tell,And cowled and barefoot beggars swarmed the way,All in their convent weeds, of black, and white, and gray.XXIOh, sweetly the returning muses' strainSwelled over that famed stream, whose gentle tideIn their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain,Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased to chide,And all the new-leaved woods, resounding wide,Send out wild hymns upon the scented air.Lo! to the smiling Arno's classic sideThe emulous nations of the West repair,And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh spirit there.XXIIStill, Heaven deferred the hour ordained to rendFrom saintly rottenness the sacred stole;And cowl and worshipped shrine could still defendThe wretch with felon stains upon his soul;And crimes were set to sale, and hard his doleWho could not bribe a passage to the skies;And vice, beneath the mitre's kind control,Sinned gayly on, and grew to giant size,Shielded by priestly power, and watched by priestly eyes.XXIIIAt last the earthquake came – the shock, that hurledTo dust, in many fragments dashed and strown,The throne, whose roots were in another world,And whose far-stretching shadow awed our own.From many a proud monastic pile, o'erthrown,Fear-struck, the hooded inmates rushed and fled;The web, that for a thousand years had grownO'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dreadCrumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen thread.XXIVThe spirit of that day is still awake,And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again;But through the idle mesh of power shall breakLike billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain;Till men are filled with him, and feel how vain,Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands,Are all the proud and pompous modes to gainThe smile of Heaven; – till a new age expandsIts white and holy wings above the peaceful lands.XXVFor look again on the past years; – behold,How like the nightmare's dreams have flown awayHorrible forms of worship, that, of old,Held, o'er the shuddering realms, unquestioned sway:See crimes, that feared not once the eye of day,Rooted from men, without a name or place:See nations blotted out from earth, to payThe forfeit of deep guilt; – with glad embraceThe fair disburdened lands welcome a nobler race.XXVIThus error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven;They fade, they fly – but Truth survives their flight;Earth has no shades to quench that beam of heaven;Each ray that shone, in early time, to lightThe faltering footstep in the path of right,Each gleam of clearer brightness shed to aidIn man's maturer day his bolder sight,All blended, like the rainbow's radiant braid,Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that cannot fade.XXVIILate, from this Western shore, that morning chasedThe deep and ancient night, which threw its shroudO'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste,Nurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proudSky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud.Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear,Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loudAmid the forest; and the bounding deerFled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near.XXVIIIAnd where his willing waves yon bright blue baySends up, to kiss his decorated brim,And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gayYoung group of grassy islands born of him,And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim,Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bringThe commerce of the world; – with tawny limb,And belt and beads in sunlight glistening,The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing.XXIXThen all this youthful paradise around,And all the broad and boundless mainland, layCooled by the interminable wood, that frownedO'er mount and vale, where never summer rayGlanced, till the strong tornado broke his wayThrough the gray giants of the sylvan wild;Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gayBeneath the showery sky and sunshine mild,Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled.XXXThere stood the Indian hamlet, there the lakeSpread its blue sheet that flashed with many an oar,Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake,And the deer drank: as the light gale flew o'er,The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore;And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair,A look of glad and guiltless beauty wore,And peace was on the earth and in the air,The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there.XXXINot unavenged – the foeman, from the wood,Beheld the deed, and, when the midnight shadeWas stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood;All died – the wailing babe – the shrinking maidAnd in the flood of fire that scathed the glade,The roofs went down; but deep the silence grew,When on the dewy woods the day-beam played;No more the cabin-smokes rose wreathed and blue,And ever, by their lake, lay moored the bark canoe.XXXIILook now abroad – another race has filledThese populous borders – wide the wood recedes,And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled;The land is full of harvests and green meads;Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds,Shine, disembowered, and give to sun and breezeTheir virgin waters; the full region leadsNew colonies forth, that toward the western seasSpread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees.XXXIIIHere the free spirit of mankind, at length,Throws its last fetters off; and who shall placeA limit to the giant's unchained strength,Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?On, like the comet's way through infinite space.Stretches the long untravelled path of light,Into the depths of ages; we may trace,Afar, the brightening glory of its flight,Till the receding rays are lost to human sight.XXXIVEurope is given a prey to sterner fates,And writhes in shackles; strong the arms that chainTo earth her struggling multitude of states;She too is strong, and might not chafe in vainAgainst them, but might cast to earth the trainThat trample her, and break their iron net.Yes, she shall look on brighter days and gainThe meed of worthier deeds; the moment setTo rescue and raise up, draws near – but is not yet.XXXVBut thou, my country, thou shalt never fall,Save with thy children – thy maternal care,Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all —These are thy fetters – seas and stormy airAre the wide barrier of thy borders, where,Among thy gallant sons who guard thee well,Thou laugh'st at enemies: who shall then declareThe date of thy deep-founded strength, or tellHow happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell?

THANATOPSIS

To him who in the love of Nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf 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 listTo 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 theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn 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 existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again,And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix for ever with the elements,To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith 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 hillsRock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, – the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods – rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, —Are but the solemn decorations allOf 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 treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. – Take the wingsOf morning, pierce the Barean wilderness,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,Save his own dashings – yet the dead are there:And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep – the dead reign there alone,So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men,The youth in life's green spring, and he who goesIn 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 joinThe innumerable caravan, which movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.