Puslapio vaizdai

But when I speak-thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave-
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!


BRYANT's poetry displays a chastened delicacy and simplicity, both in the expression and sentiment, which is equally uncommon and delightful. He possesses a refined fancy and a pure, exquisite taste. His descriptions from nature are executed with a quiet accuracy, and with great freshness and originality. He is soft and sweet in the colouring of his language, graceful in his imagery, and not being profuse of ornament, whatever he uses is select and appropriate, and gives a native richness to his compositions which we would not wish to see diminished or increased.

Thanatopsis is the finest specimen of his genius. Its spirit is like that of Wordsworth, but yet richer; and it may rank with the most elevated productions of the English poet.

Bryant's strains are all of them beautifully pure in their moral influence, inspiring the heart with a true love of nature, and a reverence for religion.


LATE from this western shore, that morning chased
The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud
O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste,
Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud
Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud.
Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear,
Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud
Amid the forest; and the bounding deer

Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yell'd near.

And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay
Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim,

And cradles, in his soft embrace, the
Young group of grassy islands born of him,
And, crowding nigh, or in the distance dim,
Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring
The 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.

Then, all his youthful paradise around,

And all the broad and boundless mainland lay,
Cool'd by the interminable wood, that frown'd
O'er mound and vale, where never summer ray
Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way
Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild;
Yet many a shelter'd glade, with blossoms gay,
Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild,
Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled.

There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake
Spread its blue sheet that flash'd 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 innocent beauty wore,
And peace was on the earth and in the air,
The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there:
Not unavenged-the foeman, from the wood,
Beheld the deed, and when the midnight shade
Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood;
All died-the wailing babe-the shrieking maid-
And 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 play'd;
No more the cabin smokes rose wreath'd and blue,
And ever, by their lake, lay moor'd the light canoe.

Look now abroad—another race has fill'd
These populous borders-wide the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd;
The land is full of harvests and green meads;
Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds,
Shine, disembower'd, and give to sun and breeze
Their virgin waters; the full region leads

New colonies forth, that toward the western seas Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees.

Here the free spirit of mankind at length
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchain'd strength,
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race.
Far, like the comet's way through infinite space,
Stretches the long untravell'd 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.


WHITHER, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power, whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,—

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd
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 shelter'd nest.

Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath 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 melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and


Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves lie dead, They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood,

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves-the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours:
The rain is falling where they lie-but the cold November


Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The windflower and the violet, they perish'd long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died, amid the summer's


But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now when comes the calm mild day—as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

d then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, e fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,

we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief; not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours, gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.


THE sad and solemn night

yet her multitude of cheerful fires;

The glorious hosts of light

lk the dark hemisphere till she retires: through her silent watches, gliding slow,

constellations come, and round the heavens, and go.

Day, too, hath many a star

grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : Through the blue fields afar,,

een they follow in his flaming way:

y a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim,
is what a radiant troop arose and set with him.

And thou dost see them rise,

of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.

Alone, in thy cold skies,

u keep'st thy old unmoving station yet,
join'st the dances of that glittering train,
dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.

There, at morn's rosy birth,

u lookest meekly through the kindling air, And eve, that round the earth

ses the day, beholds thee watching there;

re noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls
shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls.

Alike, beneath thine eye,

deeds of darkness and of light are done;

High towards the star-lit sky

ns blaze-the smoke of battle blots the sun

night-storm on a thousand hills is loud

the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.

On thy unaltering blaze

half-wreck'd mariner, his compass lost,

Fixes his steady gaze,

steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast;

they who stray in perilous wastes, by night,

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