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But when I speak-thou dost not say,
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
I still might press thy silent heart,
I do not think, where'er thou art,
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
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.
THE WESTERN WORLD.
LATE from this western shore, that morning chased
Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yell'd near.
And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay
And cradles, in his soft embrace, the
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,
There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake
Look now abroad—another race has fill'd
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
TO A WATERFOWL.
WHITHER, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
There is a Power, whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fann'd
And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.
THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
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?
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The windflower and the violet, they perish'd long ago,
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.
HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR.
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,
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,
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
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,