Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant

THE YELLOW VIOLET

When beechen buds begin to swell,And woods the blue-bird's warble know.The yellow violet's modest bellPeeps from the last year's leaves below.Ere russet fields their green resume,Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,To meet thee, when thy faint perfumeAlone is in the virgin air.Of all her train, the hands of SpringFirst plant thee in the watery mould.And I have seen thee blossomingBeside the snow-bank's edges cold.Thy parent sun, who bade thee viewPale skies, and chilling moisture sip,Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,And earthward bent thy gentle eye,Unapt the passing view to meet,When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.Oft, in the sunless April day,Thy early smile has stayed my walk;But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,I passed thee on thy humble stalk.So they, who climb to wealth, forgetThe friends in darker fortunes tried.I copied them – but I regretThat I should ape the ways of pride.And when again the genial hourAwakes the painted tribes of light,I'll not o'erlook the modest flowerThat made the woods of April bright.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needsNo school of long experience, that the worldIs full of guilt and misery, and hast seenEnough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,To tire thee of it, enter this wild woodAnd view the haunts of Nature. The calm shadeShall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breezeThat makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balmTo thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing hereOf all that pained thee in the haunts of men,And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curseFell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guiltHer pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shadesAre still the abodes of gladness; the thick roofOf green and stirring branches is aliveAnd musical with birds, that sing and sportIn wantonness of spirit; while belowThe squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shadeTry their thin wings and dance in the warm beamThat waked them into life. Even the green treesPartake the deep contentment; as they bendTo the soft winds, the sun from the blue skyLooks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoyExistence, than the wingèd plundererThat sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves,And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate treesThat lead from knoll to knoll a causey rudeOr bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,With all their earth upon them, twisting high,Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivuletSends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bedOf pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoiceIn its own being. Softly tread the marge,Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wrenThat dips her bill in water. The cool wind,That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee.Like one that loves thee nor will let thee passUngreeted, and shall give its light embrace.

SONG

Soon as the glazed and gleaming snowReflects the day-dawn cold and clear,The hunter of the West must goIn depth of woods to seek the deer.His rifle on his shoulder placed,His stores of death arranged with skill,His moccasins and snow-shoes laced —Why lingers he beside the hill?Far, in the dim and doubtful light,Where woody slopes a valley leave,He sees what none but lover might,The dwelling of his Genevieve.And oft he turns his truant eye,And pauses oft, and lingers near;But when he marks the reddening sky,He bounds away to hunt the deer.

TO A WATERFOWL

Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast —The desert and illimitable air —Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.

GREEN RIVER

When breezes are soft and skies are fair,I steal an hour from study and care,And hie me away to the woodland scene,Where wanders the stream with waters of green,As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brinkHad given their stain to the waves they drink;And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,Have named the stream from its own fair hue.Yet pure its waters – its shallows are brightWith colored pebbles and sparkles of light,And clear the depths where its eddies play,And dimples deepen and whirl away,And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershootThe swifter current that mines its root,Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,The quivering glimmer of sun and rillWith a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone.Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum;The flowers of summer are fairest there,And freshest the breath of the summer air;And sweetest the golden autumn dayIn silence and sunshine glides away.Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide,Beautiful stream! by the village side;But windest away from haunts of men,To quiet valley and shaded glen;And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still,Lonely – save when, by thy rippling tides,From thicket to thicket the angler glides;Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,For herbs of power on thy banks to look;Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee,Still – save the chirp of birds that feedOn the river cherry and seedy reed,And thy own wild music gushing outWith mellow murmur of fairy shout,From dawn to the blush of another day,Like traveller singing along his way.That fairy music I never hear,Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,And mark them winding away from sight,Darkened with shade or flashing with light,While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,But I wish that fate had left me freeTo wander these quiet haunts with thee,Till the eating cares of earth should depart,And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;And I envy thy stream, as it glides alongThrough its beautiful banks in a trance of song.Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men,And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,And mingle among the jostling crowd,Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud —I often come to this quiet place,To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,And gaze upon thee in silent dream,For in thy lonely and lovely streamAn image of that calm life appearsThat won my heart in my greener years.

A WINTER PIECE

The time has been that these wild solitudes,Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by meOftener than now; and when the ills of lifeHad chafed my spirit – when the unsteady pulseBeat with strange flutterings – I would wander forthAnd seek the woods. The sunshine on my pathWas to me as a friend. The swelling hills,The quiet dells retiring far between,With gentle invitation to exploreTheir windings, were a calm societyThat talked with me and soothed me. Then the chantOf birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caressOf the fresh sylvan air, made me forgetThe thoughts that broke my peace, and I beganTo gather simples by the fountain's brink,And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stoodIn Nature's loneliness, I was with oneWith whom I early grew familiar, oneWho never had a frown for me, whose voiceNever rebuked me for the hours I stoleFrom cares I loved not, but of which the worldDeems highest, to converse with her. When shriekedThe bleak November winds, and smote the woods,And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades.That met above the merry rivulet.Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemedLike old companions in adversity.Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gayAs with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,The village with its spires, the path of streamsAnd dim receding valleys, hid beforeBy interposing trees, lay visibleThrough the bare grove, and my familiar hauntsSeemed new to me. Nor was I slow to comeAmong them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heardLove-call of bird nor merry hum of bee,Was not the air of death, Bright mosses creptOver the spotted trunks, and the close buds,That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bentBeneath its bright cold burden, and kept dryA circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,The partridge found a shelter. Through the snowThe rabbit sprang away. The lighter trackOf fox, and the raccoon's broad path, were there,Crossing each other. From his hollow treeThe squirrel was abroad, gathering the nutsJust fallen, that asked the winter cold and swayOf winter blast, to shake them from their hold.But Winter has yet brighter scenes – he boastsSplendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows;Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woodsAll flushed with many hues. Come when the rainsHave glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice,While the slant sun of February poursInto the bowers a flood of light. Approach!The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,And the broad arching portals of the groveWelcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunksAre cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,Is studded with its trembling water-drops,That glimmer with an amethystine light.But round the parent-stem the long low boughsBend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hideThe glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spotThe spacious cavern of some virgin mine,Deep in the womb of earth – where the gems grow,And diamonds put forth radiant rods and budWith amethyst and topaz – and the placeLit up, most royally, with the pure beamThat dwells in them. Or haply the vast hallOf fairy palace, that outlasts the night,And fades not in the glory of the sun; —Where crystal columns send forth slender shaftsAnd crossing arches; and fantastic aislesWind from the sight in brightness, and are lostAmong the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye;Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;There the blue sky and the white drifting cloudLook in. Again the wildered fancy dreamsOf spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light;Light without shade. But all shall pass awayWith the next sun. From numberless vast trunksLoosened, the crashing ice shall make a soundLike the far roar of rivers, and the eveShall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.And it is pleasant, when the noisy streamsAre just set free, and milder suns melt offThe plashy snow, save only the firm driftIn the deep glen or the close shade of pines —'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smokeRoll up among the maples of the hill,Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakesThe shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph,That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops,Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn,Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft,Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axeMakes the woods ring. Along the quiet air,Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds,Such as you see in summer, and the windsScarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft,Where the cold breezes come not, blooms aloneThe little wind-flower, whose just opened eyeIs blue as the spring heaven it gazes at —Startling the loiterer in the naked grovesWith unexpected beauty, for the timeOf blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oftMuster their wrath again, and rapid cloudsShade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earthShall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hailAnd white like snow, and the loud North againShall buffet the vexed forest in his rage.

THE WEST WIND

Beneath the forest's skirt I rest,Whose branching pines rise dark and high,And hear the breezes of the WestAmong the thread-like foliage sigh.Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of woe?Is not thy home among the flowers?Do not the bright June roses blow,To meet thy kiss at morning hours?And lo! thy glorious realm outspread —Yon stretching valleys, green and gay,And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose headThe loose white clouds are borne away.And there the full broad river runs,And many a fount wells fresh and sweet,To cool thee when the mid-day sunsHave made thee faint beneath their heat.Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love;Spirit of the new-wakened year!The sun in his blue realm aboveSmooths a bright path when thou art here.In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,The wooing ring-dove in the shade;On thy soft breath, the new-fledged birdTakes wing, half happy, half afraid.Ah! thou art like our wayward race; —When not a shade of pain or illDims the bright smile of Nature's face,Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still.

THE BURIAL-PLACE.2

A FRAGMENTErewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our siresLeft not their churchyards unadorned with shadesOr blossoms, but indulgent to the strongAnd natural dread of man's last home, the grave,Its frost and silence – they disposed around,To soothe the melancholy spirit that dweltToo sadly on life's close, the forms and huesOf vegetable beauty. There the yew,Green ever amid the snows of winter, toldOf immortality, and gracefullyThe willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped;And there the gadding woodbine crept about,And there the ancient ivy. From the spotWhere the sweet maiden, in her blossoming yearsCut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and handsThat trembled as they placed her there, the roseSprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spokeHer graces, than the proudest monument.There children set about their playmate's graveThe pansy. On the infant's little bed,Wet at its planting with maternal tears,Emblem of early sweetness, early death,Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames,And maids that would not raise the reddened eye —Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joyFled early – silent lovers, who had givenAll that they lived for to the arms of earth,Came often, o'er the recent graves to strewTheir offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers.The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keepTheir Sabbaths in the eye of God alone,In his wide temple of the wilderness,Brought not these simple customs of the heartWith them. It might be, while they laid their deadBy the vast solemn skirts of the old groves,And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowersAbout their graves; and the familiar shadesOf their own native isle, and wonted blooms,And herbs were wanting, which the pious handMight plant or scatter there, these gentle ritesPassed out of use. Now they are scarcely known,And rarely in our borders may you meetThe tall larch, sighing in the burial-place,Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hideThe gleaming marble. Naked rows of gravesAnd melancholy ranks of monumentsAre seen instead, where the coarse grass, between,Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the windHisses, and the neglected bramble nigh,Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand,In vain – they grow too near the dead. Yet here,Nature, rebuking the neglect of man,Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone,The brier-rose, and upon the broken turfThat clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry plantSprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forthHer ruddy, pouting fruit…

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN."

Oh, deem not they are blest aloneWhose lives a peaceful tenor keep;The Power who pities man, hath shownA blessing for the eyes that weep.The light of smiles shall fill againThe lids that overflow with tears;And weary hours of woe and painAre promises of happier years.There is a day of sunny restFor every dark and troubled night:And grief may hide an evening guest,But joy shall come with early light.And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,Dost shed the bitter drops like rain,Hope that a brighter, happier sphereWill give him to thy arms again.Nor let the good man's trust depart,Though life its common gifts deny, —Though with a pierced and bleeding heartAnd spurned of men, he goes to die.For God hath marked each sorrowing dayAnd numbered every secret tear,And heaven's long age of bliss shall payFor all his children suffer here.

"NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE."

When he, who, from the scourge of wrong,Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly,Saw the fair region, promised long,And bowed him on the hills to die;God made his grave, to men unknown,Where Moab's rocks a vale infold,And laid the aged seer aloneTo slumber while the world grows old.Thus still, whene'er the good and justClose the dim eye on life and pain,Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dustTill the pure spirit comes again.Though nameless, trampled, and forgot,His servant's humble ashes lie,Yet God hath marked and sealed the spot,To call its inmate to the sky.

A WALK AT SUNSET

When insect wings are glistening in the beamOf the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright,Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream,Wander amid the mild and mellow light;And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay,Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains nowGo'st down in glory! ever beautifulAnd blessed is thy radiance, whether thouColorest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool,Till the bright day-star vanish, or on highClimbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid-sky.Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair,Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues,That live among the clouds, and flush the air,Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews.Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heardThe plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird.They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide,Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won;They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died,Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun;Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair,And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air.So, with the glories of the dying day,Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues,The memory of the brave who passed awayTenderly mingled; – fitting hour to museOn such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shedBrightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead.For ages, on the silent forests here,Thy beams did fall before the red man cameTo dwell beneath them; in their shade the deerFed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim.Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods,Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods.Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look,For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase,And well-fought wars; green sod and silver brookTook the first stain of blood; before thy faceThe warrior generations came and passed,And glory was laid up for many an age to last.Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blazeGoes down the west, while night is pressing on,And with them the old tale of better days,And trophies of remembered power, are gone.Yon field that gives the harvest, where the ploughStrikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now.I stand upon their ashes in thy beam,The offspring of another race, I stand,Beside a stream they loved, this valley-stream;And where the night-fire of the quivered bandShowed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung,I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue.Farewell! but thou shalt come again – thy lightMust shine on other changes, and beholdThe place of the thronged city still as night —States fallen – new empires built upon the old —But never shalt thou see these realms againDarkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men.

HYMN TO DEATH

Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heartMight hear my song without a frown, nor deemMy voice unworthy of the theme it tries, —I would take up the hymn to Death, and sayTo the grim power, The world hath slandered theeAnd mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy browThey place an iron crown, and call thee kingOf terrors, and the spoiler of the world,Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair,The loved, the good – that breathest on the lightsOf virtue set along the vale of life,And they go out in darkness. I am come,Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers,Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible tarFrom the beginning; I am come to speakThy praises. True it is, that I have weptThy conquests, and may weep them yet again,And thou from some I love wilt take a lifeDear to me as my own. Yet while the spellIs on my spirit, and I talk with theeIn sight of all thy trophies, face to face,Meet is it that my voice should utter forthThy nobler triumphs; I will teach the worldTo thank thee. Who are thine accusers? – Who?The living! – they who never felt thy power,And know thee not. The curses of the wretchWhose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy handIs on him, and the hour he dreads is come,Are writ among thy praises. But the good —Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace,Upbraid the gentle violence that took offHis fetters, and unbarred his prison-cell?Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer!God hath anointed thee to free the oppressedAnd crush the oppressor. When the armed chief,The conqueror of nations, walks the world,And it is changed beneath his feet, and allIts kingdoms melt into one mighty realm —Thou, while his head is loftiest and his heartBlasphemes, imagining his own right handAlmighty, thou dost set thy sudden graspUpon him, and the links of that strong chainWhich bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost breakSceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust.Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribesGather within their ancient bounds again.Else had the mighty of the olden time,Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feignedHis birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yetThe nations with a rod of iron, and drivenTheir chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge,In thy good time, the wrongs of those who knowNo other friend. Nor dost thou interposeOnly to lay the sufferer asleep,Where he who made him wretched troubles notHis rest – thou dost strike down his tyrant too.Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourgeDrop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold.Thou too dost purge from earth its horribleAnd old idolatries; – from the proud fanesEach to his grave their priests go out, till noneIs left to teach their worship; then the firesOf sacrifice are chilled, and the green mossO'ercreeps their altars; the fallen imagesCumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns,Chanted by kneeling multitudes, the windShrieks in the solitary aisles. When heWho gives his life to guilt, and laughs at allThe laws that God or man has made, and roundHedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth, —Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven,And celebrates his shame in open day,Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st offThe horrible example. Touched by thine,The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the goldWrung from the o'er-worn poor. The perjurer,Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and volubleAgainst his neighbor's life, and he who laughedAnd leaped for joy to see a spotless fameBlasted before his own foul calumnies,Are smit with deadly silence. He, who soldHis conscience to preserve a worthless life,Even while he hugs himself on his escape,Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length,Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no timeFor parley, nor will bribes unclench thy grasp.Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, longEre his last hour. And when the reveller,Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on,And strains each nerve, and clears the path of lifeLike wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal,And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye,And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton handShows to the faint of spirit the right path,And he is warned, and fears to step aside.Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crimeThy ghastly countenance, and his slack handDrops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfullyDost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shaftsDrink up the ebbing spirit – then the hardOf heart and violent of hand restoresThe treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged.Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluckThe guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed,Are faithless to their dreadful trust at length,And give it up; the felon's latest breathAbsolves the innocent man who bears his crime;The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in tears,Recalls the deadly obloquy he forgedTo work his brother's ruin. Thou dost makeThy penitent victim utter to the airThe dark conspiracy that strikes at life,And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hourIs come, and the dread sign of murder given.Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been foundOn virtue's side; the wicked, but for thee,Had been too strong for the good; the great of earthHad crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guileFor ages, while each passing year had broughtIts baneful lesson, they had filled the worldWith their abominations; while its tribes,Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled,Had knelt to them in worship; sacrificeHad smoked on many an altar, temple-roofsHad echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn:But thou, the great reformer of the world,Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraudIn their green pupilage, their lore half learned —Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple heartGod gave them at their birth, and blotted outHis image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope,As on the threshold of their vast designsDoubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down.…Alas! I little thought that the stern power,Whose fearful praise I sang, would try me thusBefore the strain was ended. It must cease —For he is in his grave who taught my youthThe art of verse, and in the bud of lifeOffered me to the Muses. Oh, cut offUntimely! when thy reason in its strength,Ripened by years of toil and studious search,And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taughtThy hand to practise best the lenient artTo which thou gavest thy laborious days,And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earthReceived thee, tears were in unyielding eyesAnd on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skillDelayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned paleWhen thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thouShalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I haveTo offer at thy grave – this – and the hopeTo copy thy example, and to leaveA name of which the wretched shall not thinkAs of an enemy's, whom they forgiveAs all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thouWhose early guidance trained my infant steps —Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleepOf death is over, and a happier lifeShall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.Now thou art not – and yet the men whose guiltHas wearied Heaven for vengeance – he who bearsFalse witness – he who takes the orphan's bread,And robs the widow – he who spreads abroadPolluted hands in mockery of prayer,Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I lookOn what is written, yet I blot not outThe desultory numbers; let them stand,The record of an idle revery.