As, darkly limn'd upon the crimson sky, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power whose care Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fann'd, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain fligh THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE. Within this lowly grave a conqueror lies; Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought To the great world unknown, Is graven here, and wild flowers rising round, Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart Of gentle womankind, Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May; Yet at the thought of others' pain, a shade Alone the battle fought; Through that long strife her constant hope was stay'd She met the hosts of sorrow with a look That alter'd not beneath the frown they wore; And rent the nets of passion from her path. Glory that with the fleeting season dies; How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, The mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; Dragg'd Death, disarm'd, in chains, a crouching slave. See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. O gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go Consoled, though sad, in hope, and yet in fear. The warfare scarce begun; Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won; 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. Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, 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 bring The lost ones back;-yearns with desire intense, Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. All passage save to those who hence depart; Thou giv'st them back,-nor to the broken heart. Beauty and excellence unknown :-to thee Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea; Unpublish'd charity, unbroken faith,- And grew with years, and falter'd not in death. Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unutter'd, unrevered; Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear'd. Thine for a space are they : Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, The glory and the beauty of its prime. They have not perish'd-no! Kind words, remember'd voices once so sweet, And features, the great soul's apparent seat, All shall come back; each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again; Alone shall Evil die, And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. And then shall I behold Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung, Fills the next grave,-the beautiful and young.1 THE EVENING WIND. Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone,-a thousand bosoms round And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Lies the vast inland, stretch'd beyond the sight. Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; "No poet in our country-we might perhaps add, in any country-is so exquisite in rhythm, so classically pure and accurate in language, so appropriate in diction, phrase, simile, metaphor, as Bryant. He dips his pen in words as an endowed painter his pencil in colors. His vein is deep, his chosen themes serious, and generally tinged with a not unpleasing melancholy; but pathos is his pre-eminent endowment."--Knickerbocker, i. 318. And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem THE BATTLE-FIELD. Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Ah! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her brave,- Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, And bell of wandering kine, are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Oh, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou A friendless warfare! lingering long Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The sage may frown-yet faint thou not, Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again; And dies among his worshippers.1 Of this verse an English critic thus writes:-"Mr. Bryant has certainly the rare merit of having written a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines in our recollection. It has always read to us as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each above a king's ransom." |