William Cullen Bryant
¶[1794-1878]
746 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;—[1214]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 forever 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 allOld 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 Barcan wilderness,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,[1215]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.
Robert of Lincoln
¶MERRILY swinging on brier and weed,
¶Near to the nest of his little dame,Over the mountain-side or mead,Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Snug and safe is that nest of ours,Hidden among the summer flowers.Chee, chee, chee.[1216]Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;White are his shoulders and white his crest.Hear him call in his merry note:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Look, what a nice new coat is mine,Sure there was never a bird so fine.Chee, chee, chee.
¶Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,Passing at home a patient life,Broods in the grass while her husband sings:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Brood, kind creature; you need not fearThieves and robbers while I am here.Chee, chee, chee.
¶Modest and shy as a nun is she;One weak chirp is her only note.Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,Pouring boasts from his little throat;Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Never was I afraid of man;Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!Chee, chee, chee.
¶Six white eggs on a bed of hay,Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!There as the mother sits all day,Robert is singing with all his might:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nice good wife, that never goes out,Keeping house while I frolic about.Chee, chee, chee.[1217]Soon as the little ones chip the shell,Six wide mouths are open for food;Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;This new life is likely to beHard for a gay young fellow like me.Chee, chee, chee.
¶Robert of Lincoln at length is madeSober with work, and silent with care;Off is his holiday garment laid,Half forgotten that merry air:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nobody knows but my mate and IWhere our nest and our nestlings lie.Chee, chee, chee.
¶Summer wanes; the children are grown;Fun and frolic no more he knows;Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;When you can pipe that merry old strain,Robert of Lincoln, come back again.Chee, chee, chee.
Song of Mario N's Men
¶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.[1218]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.[1219]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.
749 June
¶I GAZED upon the glorious sky
¶And the green mountains round,And thought that when I came to lieAt rest within the ground,• 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,When brooks send up a cheerful tune,And groves a joyous sound,The sexton's hand, my grave to make,The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
¶A cell within the frozen mould,A coffin borne through sleet,And icy clods above it rolled,While fierce the tempests beat—Away!—I will not think of these—Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,Earth green beneath the feet,And be the damp mould gently pressedInto my narrow place of rest.[1220]There through the long, long summer hours,The golden light should lie,And thick young herbs and groups of flowersStand in their beauty by.The oriole should build and tellHis love-tale close beside iny cell;The idle butterflyShould rest him there, and there be heardThe housewife bee and humming-bird.
¶And what if cheerful shouts at noonCome, from the village sent,Or songs of maids, beneath the moonWith fairy laughter blent?And what if, in the evening light,Betrothed lovers walk in sightOf my low monument?I would the lovely scene aroundMight know no sadder sight nor sound.
¶I know that I no more should seeThe season's glorious show,Nor would its brightness shine for me,Nor its wild music flow;But if, around my place of sleep,The friends I love should come to weep,They might not haste to go.Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloomShould keep them lingering by my tomb.
¶These to their softened hearts should bearThe thought of what has been,And speak of one who cannot shareThe gladness of the scene;Whose part, in all the pomp that fillsThe circuit of the summer hills,Is that his grave is green;And deeply would their hearts rejoiceTo hear again his living voice.
The Past
¶THOU unrelenting Past!Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,And fetters, sure and fast,Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.
¶Far in thy realm withdrawn,Old empires sit in sullenness and gioom,And glorious ages goneLie deep within the shadow of thy womb.
¶Childhood, with all its mirth,Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,And last, Man's Life on earth,Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.
¶Thou hast my better years;Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind,Yielded to thee with tears—The venerable form, the exalted mind.
¶My spirit yearns to bringThe lost ones back—yearns with desire intense,And struggles hard to wringThy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.
¶In vain; thy gates denyAll passage save to those who hence depart;Nor to the streaming eyeThou giv'st them back—nor to the broken heart.
¶In thy abysses hideBeauty and excellence unknown; to theeEarth's wonder and her prideAre gathered, as the waters to the sea;
¶Labors of good to man,Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,Love, that midst grief began,And grew with years, and faltered not in death.[1222]Full many a mighty nameLurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;With thee are silent fame,Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.
¶Thine for a space are they—Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last:Thy gates shall yet give way,Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past I
¶All that of good and fairHas gone into thy womb from earliest time,Shall then come forth to wearThe glory and the beauty of its prime.
¶They have not perished—no!Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet,Smiles, radiant long ago,And features, the great soul's apparent seat.
¶All shall come back; each tieOf pure affection shall be knit again;Alone shall Evil die,And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.
¶And then shall I beholdHim, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,And her, who, still and cold,Fills the next grave—the beautiful and young.
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.[1223]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.
The Death of Lincoln
¶O H , slow to smite and swift to spare,Gentle and merciful and just!Who, in the fear of God, didst bearThe sword of power, a nation's trust 1
¶In sorrow by thy bier we stand,Amid the awe that hushes all,And speak the anguish of a landThat shook with horror at thy fall.[1224]Thy task is done; the bond are free:We bear thee to an honored grave,Whose proudest monument shall beThe broken fetters of the slave.
¶Pure was thy life; its bloody closeHath. placed thee with the sons of light,Among the noble host of thoseWho perished in the cause of Right.April, 1865-