Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant

Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies;Yet, Cole! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strandA living image of our own bright land,Such as upon thy glorious canvas lies;Lone lakes – savannas where the bison roves —Rocks rich with summer garlands – solemn streams —Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams —Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves.Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest – fair,But different – everywhere the trace of men,Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glenTo where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air.Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven's own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night.Thou comest not when violets leanO'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple dressed,Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.Thou waitest late and com'st alone,When woods are bare and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged year is near his end.Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue – blue – as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.

THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER

Wild was the day; the wintry seaMoaned sadly on New-England's strand,When first the thoughtful and the free,Our fathers, trod the desert land.They little thought how pure a light,With years, should gather round that day;How love should keep their memories bright,How wide a realm their sons should sway.Green are their bays; but greener stillShall round their spreading fame be wreathed,And regions, now untrod, shall thrillWith reverence when their names are breathed.Till where the sun, with softer fires,Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep,The children of the pilgrim siresThis hallowed day like us shall keep.

HYMN OF THE CITY

Not in the solitudeAlone may man commune with Heaven, or see,Only in savage woodAnd sunny vale, the present Deity;Or only hear his voiceWhere the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.Even here do I beholdThy steps, Almighty! – here, amidst the crowdThrough the great city rolled,With everlasting murmur deep and loud —Choking the ways that wind'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.Thy golden sunshine comesFrom the round heaven, and on their dwellings liesAnd lights their inner homes;For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies,And givest them the storesOf ocean, and the harvests of its shores.Thy Spirit is around,Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;And this eternal sound —Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng —Like the resounding sea,Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee.And when the hour of restComes, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,Hushing its billowy breast —The quiet of that moment too is thine;It breathes of Him who keepsThe vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

THE PRAIRIES

These are the gardens of the Desert, theseThe unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,For which the speech of England has no name —The Prairies. I behold them for the first,And my heart swells, while the dilated sightTakes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch,In airy undulations, far away,As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,And motionless forever. – Motionless? —No – they are all unchained again. The cloudsSweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;12Dark hollows seem to glide along and chaseThe sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,13Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not – ye have playedAmong the palms of Mexico and vinesOf Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooksThat from the fountains of Sonora glideInto the calm Pacific – have ye fannedA nobler or a lovelier scene than this?Man hath no power in all this glorious work:The hand that built the firmament hath heavedAnd smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopesWith herbage, planted them with island groves,And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floorFor this magnificent temple of the sky —With flowers whose glory and whose multitudeRival the constellations! The great heavensSeem to stoop down upon the scene in love, —A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,Than that which bends above our eastern hills.As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed,Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sidesThe hollow beating of his footstep seemsA sacrilegious sound. I think of thoseUpon whose rest he tramples. Are they here —The dead of other days? – and did the dustOf these fair solitudes once stir with lifeAnd burn with passion? Let the mighty moundsThat overlook the rivers, or that riseIn the dim forest crowded with old oaks,Answer. A race, that long has passed away,Built them; – a disciplined and populous raceHeaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the GreekWas hewing the Pentelicus to formsOf symmetry, and rearing on its rockThe glittering Parthenon. These ample fields14Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed,When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,And bowed his manèd shoulder to the yoke.All day this desert murmured with their toils,Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooedIn a forgotten language, and old tunes,From instruments of unremembered form,Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came —The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.The solitude of centuries untoldHas settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolfHunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug denYawns by my path. The gopher mines the groundWhere stood their swarming cities. All is gone;All – save the piles of earth that hold their bones,The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods,The barriers which they builded from the soilTo keep the foe at bay – till o'er the wallsThe wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heapedWith corpses. The brown vultures of the woodFlocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres,And sat unscared and silent at their feast.Haply some solitary fugitive,Lurking in marsh and forest, till the senseOf desolation and of fear becameBitterer than death, yielded himself to die.Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind wordsWelcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors15Seated the captive with their chiefs; he choseA bride among their maidens, and at lengthSeemed to forget – yet ne'er forgot – the wifeOf his first love, and her sweet little ones,Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.Thus change the forms of being. Thus ariseRaces of living things, glorious in strength,And perish, as the quickening breath of GodFills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too,Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,And nearer to the Rocky Mountains, soughtA wilder hunting-ground. The beaver buildsNo longer by these streams, but far away,On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave backThe white man's face – among Missouri's springs,And pools whose issues swell the Oregon —He rears his little Venice. In these plainsThe bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leaguesBeyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp,Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shakeThe earth with thundering steps – yet here I meetHis ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.Still this great solitude is quick with life.Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowersThey flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deerBounds to the wood at my approach. The bee,A more adventurous colonist than man,With whom he came across the eastern deep,Fills the savannas with his murmurings,And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,Within the hollow oak. I listen longTo his domestic hum, and think I hearThe sound of that advancing multitudeWhich soon shall fill these deserts. From the groundComes up the laugh of children, the soft voiceOf maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymnOf Sabbath worshippers. The low of herdsBlends with the rustling of the heavy grainOver the dark brown furrows. All at onceA fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,And I am in the wilderness alone.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.16

Our band is few but true and tried,Our leader frank and bold;The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told.Our fortress is the good greenwood,Our tent the cypress-tree;We know the forest round us,As seamen know the sea.We know its walls of thorny vines,Its glades of reedy grass,Its safe and silent islandsWithin the dark morass.Woe to the English soldieryThat little dread us near!On them shall light at midnightA strange and sudden fear:When, waking to their tents on fire,They grasp their arms in vain,And they who stand to face usAre beat to earth again;And they who fly in terror deemA mighty host behind,And hear the tramp of thousandsUpon the hollow wind.Then sweet the hour that brings releaseFrom danger and from toil:We talk the battle over,And share the battle's spoil.The woodland rings with laugh and shout,As if a hunt were up,And woodland flowers are gatheredTo crown the soldier's cup.With merry songs we mock the windThat in the pine-top grieves,And slumber long and sweetlyOn beds of oaken leaves.Well knows the fair and friendly moonThe band that Marion leads —The glitter of their rifles,The scampering of their steeds.'Tis life to guide the fiery barbAcross the moonlight plain;'Tis life to feel the night-windThat lifts the tossing mane.A moment in the British camp —A moment – and awayBack to the pathless forest,Before the peep of day.Grave men there are by broad Santee,Grave men with hoary hairs;Their hearts are all with Marion,For Marion are their prayers.And lovely ladies greet our bandWith kindliest welcoming,With smiles like those of summer,And tears like those of spring.For them we wear these trusty arms,And lay them down no moreTill we have driven the Briton,Forever, from our shore.

THE ARCTIC LOVER

Gone is the long, long winter night;Look, my belovèd one!How glorious, through his depths of light,Rolls the majestic sun!The willows, waked from winter's death,Give out a fragrance like thy breath —The summer is begun!Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day:Hark to that mighty crash!The loosened ice-ridge breaks away —The smitten waters flash;Seaward the glittering mountain rides,While, down its green translucent sides,The foamy torrents dash.See, love, my boat is moored for theeBy ocean's weedy floor —The petrel does not skim the seaMore swiftly than my oar.We'll go where, on the rocky isles,Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl pilesBeside the pebbly shore.Or, bide thou where the poppy blows,With wind-flowers frail and fair,While I, upon his isle of snow,Seek and defy the bear.Fierce though he be, and huge of frame,This arm his savage strength shall tame,And drag him from his lair.When crimson sky and flamy cloudBespeak the summer o'er,And the dead valleys wear a shroudOf snows that melt no more,I'll build of ice thy winter home,With glistening walls and glassy dome,And spread with skins the floor.The white fox by thy couch shall play;And, from the frozen skies,The meteors of a mimic dayShall flash upon thine eyes.And I – for such thy vow – meanwhileShall hear thy voice and see thy smile.Till that long midnight flies.

THE JOURNEY OF LIFE

Beneath the waning moon I walk at night,And muse on human life – for all aroundAre dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight,And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground,And broken gleams of brightness, here and there,Glance through, and leave unwarmed the death-like air.The trampled earth returns a sound of fear —A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs;And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appearFar off, and die like hope amid the glooms.A mournful wind across the landscape flies,And the wide atmosphere is full of sighs.And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on,Watching the stars that roll the hours away,Till the faint light that guides me now is gone,And, like another life, the glorious dayShall open o'er me from the empyreal height,With warmth, and certainty, and boundless light.

TRANSLATIONS

VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES

The night winds howled, the billows dashedAgainst the tossing chest,As Danaë to her broken heartHer slumbering infant pressed."My little child" – in tears she said —"To wake and weep is mine,But thou canst sleep – thou dost not knowThy mother's lot, and thine."The moon is up, the moonbeams smile —They tremble on the main;But dark, within my floating cell,To me they smile in vain."Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm,Thy clustering locks are dry;Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust,Nor breakers booming high."As o'er thy sweet unconscious faceA mournful watch I keep,I think, didst thou but know thy fate,How thou wouldst also weep."Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds,That vex the restless brine —When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealedAs peacefully as thine!"

FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS

'Tis sweet, in the green Spring,To gaze upon the wakening fields around;Birds in the thicket sing,Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground.A thousand odors rise,Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.Shadowy, and close, and cool,The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook;Forever fresh and full,Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook;And the soft herbage seemsSpread for a place of banquets and of dreams.Thou, who alone art fair,And whom alone I love, art far away.Unless thy smile be there,It makes me sad to see the earth so gay;I care not if the trainOf leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again.

MARY MAGDALEN.17

FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLABlessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted!The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn,In wonder and in scorn!Thou weepest days of innocence departed;Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to moveThe Lord to pity and love.The greatest of thy follies is forgiven,Even for the least of all the tears that shineOn that pale cheek of thine.Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven,Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt riseHoly, and pure, and wise.It is not much that to the fragrant blossomThe ragged brier should change, the bitter firDistil Arabian myrrh;Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom,The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swainBear home the abundant grain.But come and see the bleak and barren mountainsThick to their tops with roses; come and seeLeaves on the dry dead tree.The perished plant, set out by lining fountains,Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise,Forever, toward the skies.

THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEONRegion of life and light!Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er!Nor frost nor heat may blightThy vernal beauty, fertile shore,Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore.There, without crook or sling,Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and redRound his meek temples cling;And to sweet pastures led,The flock he loves beneath his eye is fed.He guides, and near him theyFollow delighted, for he makes them goWhere dwells eternal May,And heavenly roses blow,Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.He leads them to the heightNamed of the infinite and long-sought Good,And fountains of delight;And where his feet have stoodSprings up, along the way, their tender food.And when, in the mid skies,The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,Reposing as he lies,With all his flock around,He witches the still air with numerous sound.From his sweet lute flow forthImmortal harmonies, of power to stillAll passions born of earth,And draw the ardent willIts destiny of goodness to fulfil.Might but a little part,A wandering breath of that high melody,Descend into my heart,And change it till it beTransformed and swallowed up, oh love, in thee!Ah! then my soul should know,Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day,And from this place of woeReleased, should take its wayTo mingle with thy flock and never stray.

FATIMA AND RADUAN.18

FROM THE SPANISHDiamante falso y fingido,Engastado en pedernal, etc."False diamond set in flint! hard heart in haughty breast!By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger's couch is prest.Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind,And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind.If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would beTo tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me.Oh! I could chide thee sharply – but every maiden knowsThat she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Granada's maids,Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades;And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every oneThat what thou didst to win my love, for love of me was done.Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know,They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go;But thou giv'st me little heed – for I speak to one who knowsThat she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bearWhat fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care.Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou know'st I feelThat cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel.'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain;But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again.I would proclaim thee as thou art – but every maiden knowsThat she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan,Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran.The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was,He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause:"Oh lady, dry those star-like eyes – their dimness does me wrong;If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long.Thou hast uttered cruel words – but I grieve the less for those,Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."

LOVE AND FOLLY.19

FROM LA FONTAINELove's worshippers alone can knowThe thousand mysteries that are his;His blazing torch, his twanging bow,His blooming age are mysteries.A charming science – but the dayWere all too short to con it o'er;So take of me this little lay,A sample of its boundless lore.As once, beneath the fragrant shadeOf myrtles fresh in heaven's pure air,The children, Love and Folly, played,A quarrel rose betwixt the pair.Love said the gods should do him right —But Folly vowed to do it then,And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight,So hard he never saw again.His lovely mother's grief was deep,She called for vengeance on the deed;A beauty does not vainly weep,Nor coldly does a mother plead.A shade came o'er the eternal blissThat fills the dwellers of the skies;Even stony-hearted Nemesis,And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes."Behold," she said, "this lovely boy,"While streamed afresh her graceful tears —"Immortal, yet shut out from joyAnd sunshine, all his future years.The child can never take, you see,A single step without a staff —The hardest punishment would beToo lenient for the crime by half."All said that Love had suffered wrong,And well that wrong should be repaid;Then weighed the public interest long,And long the party's interest weighed.And thus decreed the court above:"Since Love is blind from Folly's blow,Let Folly be the guide of Love,Where'er the boy may choose to go."

THE SIESTA

FROM THE SPANISHVientecico murmurador,Que lo gozas y andas todo, etc.Airs, that wander and murmur round,Bearing delight where'er ye blow!Make in the elms a lulling sound,While my lady sleeps in the shade below.Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest,Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er.Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breastThe pain she has waked may slumber no more.Breathing soft from the blue profound,Bearing delight where'er ye blow,Make in the elms a lulling sound,While my lady sleeps in the shade below.Airs! that over the bending boughs,And under the shade of pendent leaves,Murmur soft, like my timid vowsOr the secret sighs my bosom heaves —Gently sweeping the grassy ground,Bearing delight where'er ye blow,Make in the elms a lulling sound,While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA

FROM THE SPANISHTo the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vain,And toward his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein;Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard."Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor,"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood!Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to seeHow ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fifeCan change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.Say not my voice is magic – thy pleasure is to hearThe bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.Well, follow thou thy choice – to the battle-field away,To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,And in the life thou lovest, forget whom thou dost wrong.These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own,20Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek,Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR

FROM THE SPANISH'Tis not with gilded sabresThat gleam in baldricks blue,Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,Of gay and gaudy hue —But, habited in mourning weeds,Come marching from afar,By four and four, the valiant menWho fought with Aliatar.All mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.The banner of the Phœnix,The flag that loved the sky,That scarce the wind dared wanton with,It flew so proud and high —Now leaves its place in battle-field,And sweeps the ground in grief,The bearer drags its glorious foldsBehind the fallen chief,As mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.Brave Aliatar led forwardA hundred Moors to goTo where his brother held MotrilAgainst the leaguering foe.On horseback went the gallant Moor,That gallant band to lead;And now his bier is at the gate,From which he pricked his steed.While mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.The knights of the Grand MasterIn crowded ambush lay;They rushed upon him where the reedsWere thick beside the way;They smote the valiant Aliatar,They smote the warrior dead,And broken, but not beaten, wereThe gallant ranks he led.Now mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow,How passionate her cries!Her lover's wounds streamed not more freeThan that poor maiden's eyes.Say, Love – for didst thou see her tears —21Oh, no! he drew more tightThe blinding fillet o'er his lidsTo spare his eyes the sight.While mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.Nor Zayda weeps him only,But all that dwell betweenThe great Alhambra's palace wallsAnd springs of Albaicin.The ladies weep the flower of knights,The brave the bravest here;The people weep a champion,The Alcaydes a noble peer.While mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.

LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY.22

FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOURThe earth was sown with early flowers,The heavens were blue and bright —I met a youthful cavalierAs lovely as the light.I knew him not – but in my heartHis graceful image lies,And well I marked his open brow,His sweet and tender eyes,His ruddy lips that ever smiled,His glittering teeth betwixt,And flowing robe embroidered o'er,With leaves and blossoms mixed.He wore a chaplet of the rose;His palfrey, white and sleek,Was marked with many an ebon spot,And many a purple streak;Of jasper was his saddle-bow,His housings sapphire stone,And brightly in his stirrup glancedThe purple calcedon.Fast rode the gallant cavalier,As youthful horsemen ride;"Peyre Vidal! know that I am Love,"The blooming stranger cried;"And this is Mercy by my side,A dame of high degree;This maid is Chastity," he said,"This squire is Loyalty."