The Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thus all that live—swift fishes—painted birds—
The desert's ravenous tribes—the harmless herds—
And prouder man—obey the powerful call,—
And Love's almighty frenzy masters all!
The lioness, to wilder fury stung,
Then terribly walks forth, and leaves her young;—
With bloodier ravages the shapeless bear
Pollutes his woods;—the tiger leaves his lair,
In fury stalks;—fiercer rushes forth the boar;—
Woe, then, to him that walks the Lybian shore!—
Mark how the well-known gales the steed inflame,
And shoot a shivering thrill through all his frame.
Him, as with sudden bound he bursts away,
Nor curb nor lash, ravines nor rocks delay,
Nor rivers interposed, whose torrents sweep
The uprooted mountains downward to the deep.

Great Barrington, 1817.

SPAIN.

Aye, wear the chain—ye who for once have known
The sweets of freedom—yet could crouch again
In blind and trembling worship of a throne;
Aye wear—for ye are worthy—wear the chain
And bow, till ye are weary, to the yoke
Your patriot fathers broke.

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Degenerate Spaniards! let the priestly band
Possess your realm again; and let them wake
The fires of pious murder in your land,
And drag your best and bravest to the stake,
And tread down truth, and in the dungeon bind
The dreaded strength of mind.

Give up the promise of bright days that cast
A glory on your nation from afar;
Call back the darkness of the ages past
To quench that holy dawn's new-risen star;
Let only tyrants and their slaves be found
Alive on Spanish ground.

Yet mark! ye cast the gift of heaven away,
And your best blood for this shall yet be shed;
The fire shall waste your borders, and the way
Be covered with its heaps of festering dead,
And vultures of the cliff on every plain
Feast high upon the slain.

The spirit that of yore had slept so long,
Then woke, and drove the Moors to Afric's shore,
Lives, and repressed, shall rise one day more strong—
Rise and redeem your shackled race once more,
And crush, mid showers of blood and shrieks and groans,
Mitres and stars and thrones.

Great Barrington, 1822.

THE SHARPENING OF THE SABRE.

FROM THE GERMAN. AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

Burning thoughts within me call
For the good old brand I wore;
Hand the sabre from the wall—
Let me try its weight once more.
Bring the sharpening-stone to me,
Sharp must now my sabre be.

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Sabre, thou didst look so dull,
Under dust and spider-net!
Ah, thou shalt be beautiful,
With the blood of foemen wet!
Turn, boy, turn the stone for me,
Sharper must my sabre be.

Come and fill this faithful hand,
Be again my own true sword,
Till the lost, lost Fatherland
Shall be rescued and restored.
Turn, boy, turn the stone for me,
Sharper must my sabre be.

For the sacred German realm,
For our honor trodden low,
Sabre! strike, through shield and helm,
One good blow, a mighty blow.
Turn, boy, turn the stone for me,
Sharper must my sabre be.

Brothers, win the banner back!
We must earn the death of men;
Brothers, win the banner back!
I shall die contented then.
Turn, boy, turn the stone for me,
Sharper must my sabre be.

Heard I not, before the door,
Peal the trumpet's thrilling blast?
Heard I not the cannon's roar?
Ah, 'twas but the storm that passed!
Turn, boy, turn the stone for me,
Sharp must now my sabre be.

New York, 1836. Evening Post, July, 1836.

370

I THINK OF THEE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

I think of thee when the strong rays of noon
Flash from the sea;
When the clear fountains glimmer in the moon,
I think of thee.

I see thee when along the distant way
The dust-clouds creep,
And in the night, when trembling travellers stray
By chasm and steep.

I hear thee when the tides go murmuring soft
To the calm air;
In lone and stilly woods I listen oft,
And hear thee there.

I am with thee—I know thou art afar,
Yet dream thee near;
The sun goes down; star brightens after star;
Would thou wert here!

New York, 1840. Godey's Lady's Book, January, 1844.

THE SAW-MILL.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KERNER.

In yonder mill I rested,
And sat me down to look
Upon the wheel's quick glimmer,
And on the flowing brook.

As in a dream before me,
The saw, with restless play,
Was cleaving through a fire-tree
Its long and steady way.

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The tree through all its fibres
With living motion stirred,
And, in a dirge-like murmur,
These solemn words I heard:

Oh, thou who wanderest hither,
A timely guest thou art!
For thee, this cruel engine
Is passing through my heart.

When soon, in earth's still bosom,
Thy hours of rest begin,
This wood shall form the chamber
Whose walls shall close thee in.

Four planks—I saw and shuddered—
Dropped in that busy mill;
Then, as I tried to answer,
At once the wheel was still.

Graham's Magazine, February, 1850.

THE SWALLOW.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF F. GROSSÈ.

Swallow from beyond the sea!
That, with every dawn again,
Sitting on the balcony,
Utterest that plaintive strain!
What is that thou tellest me?
Swallow from beyond the sea.

Haply thou, for him who went
From thee, and forgot his mate,
Dost lament to my lament,
Widowed, lonely, desolate.
Ever, then, lament with me,
Swallow from beyond the sea.

372

Happier yet art thou than I.
Thee thy trusty wings may bear,
Over lake and cliff to fly,
Filling with thy cries the air,
Calling him continually,
Swallow from beyond the sea.

Could I, too!—but I must pine
In this narrow vault and low;
Where the sun can never shine,
Where the breeze can never blow;
Where my voice scarce reaches thee,
Swallow from beyond the sea.

Now September days are near,
Thou to distant shores wilt fly;
In another hemisphere,
Other streams shall hear thy cry;
Other hills shall answer thee,
Swallow from beyond the sea.

Then shall I, when daylight glows,
Waking to the sense of pain,
Midst the wintry frosts and snows,
Think I hear thy notes again,—
Notes that seem to grieve for me,
Swallow from beyond the sea.

Planted here, upon the ground,
Thou shalt find a cross in spring.
There, as evening gathers round,
Swallow, come and rest thy wing.
Chant a strain of peace to me,
Swallow from beyond the sea.

Naples, February 8, 1858.

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THE OLD-WORLD SPARROW.

We hear the note of a stranger bird
That ne'er till now in our land was heard;
A wingèd settler has taken his place
With Teutons and men of the Celtic race;
He has followed their path to our hemisphere—
The Old-World sparrow at last is here.

He meets not here, as beyond the main,
The fowler's snare and the poisoned grain,
But snug-built homes on the friendly tree;
And crumbs for his chirping family
Are strewn when the winter fields are drear,
For the Old-World sparrow is welcome here.

The insect legions that sting our fruit,
And strip the leaves from the growing shoot—
A swarming, skulking, ravenous tribe,
Which Harris and Flint so well describe
But cannot destroy—may quail with fear,
For the Old-World sparrow, their bane, is here.

The apricot, in the summer ray,
May ripen now on the loaded spray,
And the nectarine, by the garden walk,
Keep firm its hold on the parent stalk,
And the plum its fragrant fruitage rear,
For the Old-World sparrow, their friend, is here.

That pest of gardens, the little Turk
Who signs, with the crescent, his wicked work,
And causes the half-grown fruit to fall,
Shall be seized and swallowed, in spite of all
His sly devices of cunning and fear,
For the Old-World sparrow, his foe, is here.

And the army-worm, and the Hessian fly,
And the dreaded canker-worm shall die,

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And the thrip and slug and fruit-moth seek,
In vain, to escape that busy beak,
And fairer harvests shall crown the year,
For the Old-World sparrow at last is here.

Roslyn, 1859.

CIVIL WAR.

FROM HORACE, EPODE VII.

Ha! whither rush ye? to what deeds of guilt?
Why lift the sword again?
Has not enough of Latian blood been spilt
To purple land and main?

Not with proud Carthage war ye now, to set
Her turrets in a blaze;
Nor fight to lead the Briton, tameless yet,
Chained on the public ways.

But that our country, at the Parthian's prayer,
May perish self-o'erthrown.
The wolf and lion war not thus; they spare
Their kindred each his own.

What moves ye thus? blind fury, heaven's decree,
Or restless guilt? Reply!—
They answer not; upon their faces, see,
Paleness and horror lie!

Fate and the wrong against a brother wrought
Have caused that deadly rage.
The blood of unoffending Remus brought
This curse upon our age.

New York, 1861.

375

THE SONG SPARROW.

Bird of the door-side, warbling clear,
In the sprouting or fading year!
Well art thou named from thy own sweet lay,
Piped from paling or naked spray,
As the smile of the sun breaks through
Chill gray clouds that curtain the blue.

Even when February bleak
Smites with his sleet the traveller's cheek,
While the air has no touch of spring,
Bird of promise! we hear thee sing.
Long ere the first blossom wakes,
Long ere the earliest leaf-bud breaks.

April passes and May steals by;
June leads in the sultry July;
Sweet are the wood-notes, loud and sweet,
Poured from the robin's and hang-bird's seat;
Thou, as the green months glide away,
Singest with them as gayly as they.

August comes, and the melon and maize
Bask and swell in a fiery blaze;
Swallows gather, and, southward bound,
Wheel, like a whirl-blast, round and round;
Thrush and robin their songs forget;
Thou art cheerfully warbling yet.

Later still, when the sumach spray
Reddens to crimson, day by day;
When in the orchard, one by one,
Apples drop in the ripening sun,
They who pile them beneath the trees
Hear thy lay in the autumn breeze.

Comes November, sullen and grim,
Spangling with frost the rivulet's brim,

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Harsh, hoarse winds from the woodlands tear
Each brown leaf that is clinging there.
Still thou singest, amid the blast,
“Soon is the dreariest season past.”

Only when Christmas snow-storms make
Smooth white levels of river and lake,
Sifting the light flakes all day long,
Only then do we miss thy song;
Sure to hear it again when soon
Climbs the sun to a higher noon.

Now, when tidings that make men pale—
Tidings of slaughter—load the gale;
While, from the distant camp, there come
Boom of cannon and roll of drum,
Still thou singest, beside my door,
“Soon is the stormiest season o'er.”

Ever thus sing cheerfully on,
Bird of Hope! as in ages gone;
Sing of spring-time and summer-shades,
Autumn's pomp when the summer fades,
Storms that fly from the conquering sun,
Peace by enduring valor won.

Roslyn, August, 1861. The William's Magazine.

THE BETTER AGE.

When, after days of dreary rain, a space
Of clear, soft blue, between the parting clouds,
Opens on the drenched fields and dripping woods,
The tillers of the soil are glad, and say
The storm is overpast. For well they know
That in this clear blue spot begins the reign
Of sunshine. Broader shall the opening grow,
As through the throng of clouds the western wind
Goes forth, a conqueror, and scatters them
And sweeps them from the glorious cope of heaven.

377

Thus in the works of mercy that engage
The minds and hands of thousands, we behold
Signs of a blessed future. They who watch
Beside the sick-beds of the poor, who seek
And lead the erring back to the right way,
And heal the wounded spirit with the balm
Of pity, and hold back the cruel hand
That smites the helpless; they whose labors win
The outcast hater of his kind to feel
The power of goodness and shed penitent tears,
Are God's elected agents to bring in
The better age. With gladness and with thanks
We number mercy's triumphs, and our hopes
Go forward to the train of glorious years,
When all the clouds of strife, that darken earth
And hide the face of heaven, shall roll away,
And, like a calm, sweet sunshine, love and peace
Shall light the dreariest walks of human life.

Roslyn, 1862.

A TALE OF CLOUDLAND.

A FRAGMENT.

If thou art one who in thy early years
Wert wont to gaze delighted on the clouds,
High-piled and floating on the silent wind,—
If then the wish arose within thy heart
To sit on those white banks of down, and thence
To look on the green earth and glittering streams,—
If thou didst wonder who they were that walked
Those shining hills of heaven and dwelt within
The palaces that flamed so gloriously
With gold and crimson in the setting sun,—
To thee, and such as thou, may I not tell
This tale of cloudland in our father's time.

Beneath the soft rays of the westering sun
A matron and a damsel sat and watched

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The trains of cloud that touched the neighboring steeps
And slid from cliff to cliff. The elder dame
Was of majestic mien, with calm, dark eyes,
That seemed to read the inmost thoughts of those
On whom they looked. “It should not be,” she said.
“I grieve that Hubert thus should leave the walks
Of daily duty for these wanderings
Among the mountain mists. Plead as thou wilt,
Life has its cares, my daughter, graver cares,
That may not be put by.” Then Mary spoke—
A budding beauty, with soft hazel eyes,
And glossy chestnut hair whose wandering curls
The sunshine turned to gold. “Nay, blame him not,
For not in vain he walks the mountain height,
Where the clouds cling and linger. Pleasant 'tis
To hear him, sitting in our porch at eve,
When all the meadow grounds within this vale
Twinkle with fire-flies, tell what he has seen
From his high perch—I know not how—the march
Of armies, and their meeting in the shock
Of battle, and the couriers posting forth
To the four winds with news of victory,
Won by the yeoman's arm.”
“Yet seest thou not,”
Rejoined the stately lady Isabel,
“That Hubert's fitter place were in the ranks
Of those brave men, that, led by Washington,
Defy the hosts of Britain?” “It were well,”
Said Mary, “that he too should bear his part
In this great war of freedom; yet, I pray,
Think what he is—a dreamer from his birth.
Ever, apart from the resorts of men,
He roamed the pathless woods, and hearkened long
To winds that brought into their silent depths
The nearness of the mountain water-falls.
What should he do in battle?” Then she said,
Gathering fresh boldness in her brother's cause,
“Think how, since he began to wander forth
Among the mountain-peaks, the region round
Has had the kindest seasons. Never drought

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Embrowns the grassy fields, nor jagged hail
Tears tender leaf and flower; cloud-shadows make
A screen against the burning sunshine poured
Too freely from the August sky, and showers
Drop gently at due times. All summer long
Sleep the luxuriant meadows, and keep full
The clear fresh springs and gurgling rivulets;
The early and late frosts surprise not here
The husbandman, but when the air grows sharp,
Soft vapors rise, beneath whose friendly veil
The green blood of the herbage curdles not
To ice; the winds of winter toss no more
The deep snow into heaps, but softly fall
The flakes, a kindly covering for the earth
With all its sleeping germs, till April suns
Melt it to crystal for the merry brooks.
Mother, the herdsmen of our vale owe thanks
To Hubert for the wealth that crowns the year,
And I have seen—”
The maiden checked her speech,
For the calm eyes of Isabel were turned
Full on her own; that grave look startled her.
“Speak on,” the matron said. “What hast thou seen?”

“It was but yesterday,” the maid replied,
“A white low-lying cloud swam gently in,
Touching our mountain pastures where they meet
The rocky woods above them. Hubert stepped
From its thick folds, and as they rolled away
I plainly saw a chariot cushioned deep
With sides that seemed of down, and skirt-like wings
On which they nestled. One fair form within
Was seated, flinging from the finger tips
Of her white hands a thousand kind adieus
To Hubert where he stood. It was as though
A pearly cloud had taken human shape;
I saw the round white arms; a coronet
Of twinkling points, like sparks of sunshine, bound
Her forehead, and a gauzy scarf, whose tint
Was of the spring heaven's softest, tenderest blue,

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Streamed from her shoulder. As I looked, the form
Took fainter outlines, and the twinkling points
Around her brow grew paler, till at length
I only saw a cloud-wreath, floating off
On the slow wind; yet must I now believe
That Hubert holds communion in strange sort
With creatures of the upper element,
Whose dwelling is the cloud, who guide the shower
From vale to vale, and shed the snows, and fling
The lightnings? Therefore, said I, that our vale
Owes thanks to Hubert for its genial skies.”

Here spake the matron. “Art thou then become,”
She said, “a dreamer as thy brother is?
Think not that he who moulded in his hand
The globe, and filled the chambers of the sky
With the ever-flowing air, hath need to use
The ministries thou speakest of. He looks
Upon these vapory curtains of the earth,
And so they darken into drifts of rain
Or whiten into snow. His thunders, launched
From the remotest West, ere thou canst speak
Are quivering at the portals of the East.
The winds blow softly where he bids, or rise
In fury, tearing from their hold in earth
The helpless oaks and twisting the huge pines
In twain, and flinging them among the clouds.
Nay, speak more reverently, and leave to God
His thunders.”
“Reverently,” the maid replied,
“I ever speak of him whose hand I see
In all the motions of the elements.
Yet hath he living agents, so our faith
Hath taught us: messengers that do his will
Among the unconscious nations—such as led
The Hebrew from the Cities of the Plain,
When heaven rained fire upon their guilty roofs;
And haply is there blame if we should deem
That in the middle air abides a race
Thoughtful and kind, who at His bidding roll

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The clouds together, measuring out to man
The rains and dews, and tempering the hot noon,
With shadow chasing shadow o'er the vale?”

The matron pondered as the maiden urged
Her plea, and then was silent for a while.
But Mary spoke again. “Look, mother, look!
How gloriously about the sinking sun
The flamy clouds are gathered! Lofty towers
Rise from those purple streets. Who looks abroad
From their high battlements? Behold where moves
A long procession of the shining ones,
Tall kings and stately queens with sweeping trains,
Warriors in glittering mail, and cardinals
In scarlet robes, and bearded counsellors,
Thin-haired with age, and light-limbed followers,
And mingled with the diadems I see
Helm, mitre, and tiara, while above
Rise spear, and mace, and crosses, and broad sheets
Of banner floating in the rosy air.
Oh, never was on earth a pageant seen
So gorgeous, furnished from her richest ores,
And beds of jewels, and the subtlest looms
That weave the silk-worm's thread in lustrous webs.
For all are pale beside the glory born
Of these bright vapors round the setting sun.
There is no sight so fair this side of heaven.”

The stately matron heard, and looked, and smiled.
“Thus doth thy fancy cheat thy willing eye,”
She said. “The freakish wind among the mists
Moulds them as sculptors mould the yielding clay,
Fashioning them to thousand antic shapes
Beneath the evening blaze. Thy ready thought
Couples their outline, and bestows the forms
That rise in thine own mind. Thou shouldst have lived
When, on his canvas, Paul the Veronese
Laid his magnificent throngs of goodly men
And glorious ladies in their rich attire.
Thou shouldst have been his pupil. Yet behold,

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Even while we speak the sunset glory fades,
And the clouds settle into purple bars
Athwart the depths of that transparent sky
Through which the day withdraws. A chilly breath
Comes up from the moist meadows. Let us hence.”

Then rose the pair and took the homeward path;
And from the windows of their dwelling saw
The night come down upon their vale, and heard
The heavy rushing of her wind among
The neighboring maples, mingled with the brawl
Of mountain-brooks, while from the thicket near
The whippoorwill sent forth his liquid note,
Piercing that steady murmur. As the shades
Grew deeper, Isabel and Mary knelt
To say their evening prayer, and by their side
Knelt Hubert, for the simple reverence taught
In childhood kept its hold upon his heart.
They prayed the Merciful to guide and shield
And pardon—then withdrew, with kindly words
Of parting, each to rest. A rising mist
Meantime had quenched the stars, and o'er the earth
Shower after shower, with gentle beating, ran,
As if a fairy chase were in the air,
And myriads of little footsteps tapped
The roof above the household. Mary slept
To the soft sounds, and dreamed. The glorious throng
Which her quick fancy pictured in the clouds
Of sunset had laid by their bright attire—
Such was her dream—and now in trailing robes,
Sad colored, and in hoods of sober gray,
Went drifting through the air and beckoning up
The troops of mist from lake and rivulet,
And leading through mid-sky the shadowy train,
And pointing where to halt in deep array
Above the expectant fields and shed the rain.

So wore the night away. The murmuring showers
Lengthened the slumbers in that mountain lodge,
Until, as morn drew near, the parting clouds
Opened a field in the clear eastern sky,

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In which the day-star glittered, and the dawn
Glowed on the horizon's edge. On either side
They ranged themselves to catch the earliest beams,
Scarlet or golden, of the approaching sun;
As when within a city's crowded streets
The gathered multitude divide and leave
Large space to let some glorious monarch pass.

Roslyn, 1862.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

“But there is yet a region of the clouds
Unseen from the low earth. Beyond the veil
Of these dark volumes rolling through the sky,
Its mountain summits glisten in the sun,—
The realm of Castles in the Air. The foot
Of man hath never trod those shining streets;
But there his spirit, leaving the dull load
Of bodily organs, wanders with delight,
And builds its structures of the impalpable mist,
Glorious beyond the dream of architect,
And populous with forms of nobler mould
Than ever walked the earth.”
So said my guide,
And led me, wondering, to a headland height
That overlooked a fair broad vale shut in
By the great hills of Cloudland. “Now behold
The Castle-builders!” Then I looked; and, lo!
The vale was filled with shadowy forms, that bore
Each a white wand, with which they touched the banks
Of mist beside them, and at once arose,
Obedient to their wish, the walls and domes
Of stately palaces, Gothic or Greek,
Or such as in the land of Mohammed
Uplift the crescent, or, in forms more strange,
Border the ancient Indus, or behold

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Their gilded friezes mirrored in the lakes
Of China—yet of ampler majesty,
And gorgeously adorned. Tall porticos
Sprang from the ground; the eye pursued afar
Their colonnades, that lessened to a point
In the faint distance. Portals that swung back
On musical hinges showed the eye within
Vast halls with golden floors, and bright alcoves,
And walls of pearl, and sapphire vault besprent
With silver stars. Within the spacious rooms
Were banquets spread; and menials, beautiful
As wood-nymphs or as stripling Mercuries,
Ran to and fro, and laid the chalices,
And brought the brimming wine-jars. Enters now
The happy architect, and wanders on
From room to room, and glories in his work.
Not long his glorying: for a chill north wind
Breathes through the structure, and the massive walls
Are folded up; the proud domes roll away
In mist-wreaths; pinnacle and turret lean
Forward, like birds prepared for flight, and stream,
In trains of vapor, through the empty air.
Meantime the astonished builder, dispossessed,
Stands 'mid the drifting rack. A brief despair
Seizes him; but the wand is in his hand,
And soon he turns him to his task again.
“Behold,” said the fair being at my side,
“How one has made himself a diadem
Out of the bright skirts of a cloud that lay
Steeped in the golden sunshine, and has bound
The bauble on his forehead! See, again,
How from these vapors he calls up a host
With arms and banners! A great multitude
Gather and bow before him with bare heads.
To the four winds his messengers go forth,
And bring him back earth's homage. From the ground
Another calls a wingèd image, such
As poets give to Fame, who, to her mouth
Putting a silver trumpet, blows abroad

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A loud, harmonious summons to the world,
And all the listening nations shout his name.
Another yet, apart from all the rest,
Casting a fearful glance from side to side,
Touches the ground by stealth. Beneath his wand
A glittering pile grows up, ingots and bars
Of massive gold, and coins on which earth's kings
Have stamped their symbols.” As these words were said,
The north wind blew again across the vale,
And, lo! the beamy crown flew off in mist;
The host of armèd men became a scud
Torn by the angry blast; the form of Fame
Tossed its long arms in air, and rode the wind,
A jagged cloud; the glittering pile of gold
Grew pale and flowed in a gray reek away.
Then there were sobs and tears from those whose work
The wind had scattered; some had flung themselves
Upon the ground in grief; and some stood fixed
In blank bewilderment; and some looked on
Unmoved, as at a pageant of the stage
Suddenly hidden by the curtain's fall.

“Take thou this wand,” my bright companion said.
I took it from her hand, and with it touched
The knolls of snow-white mist, and they grew green
With soft, thick herbage. At another touch
A brook leaped forth, and dashed and sparkled by;
And shady walks through shrubberies cool and close
Wandered; and where, upon the open grounds,
The peaceful sunshine lay, a vineyard nursed
Its pouting clusters; and from boughs that drooped
Beneath their load an orchard shed its fruit;
And gardens, set with many a pleasant herb
And many a glorious flower, made sweet the air.

I looked, and I exulted; yet I longed
For Nature's grander aspects, and I plied
The slender rod again; and then arose
Woods tall and wide, of odorous pine and fir,
And every noble tree that casts the leaf
In autumn. Paths that wound between their stems

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Led through the solemn shade to twilight glens,
To thundering torrents and white waterfalls,
And edge of lonely lakes, and chasms between
The mountain-cliffs. Above the trees were seen
Gray pinnacles and walls of splintered rock.

But near the forest margin, in the vale,
Nestled a dwelling half embowered by trees,
Where, through the open window, shelves were seen
Filled with old volumes, and a glimpse was given
Of canvas, here and there along the walls,
On which the hands of mighty men of art
Had flung their fancies. On the portico
Old friends, with smiling faces and frank eyes,
Talked with each other: some had passed from life
Long since, yet dearly were remembered still.
My heart yearned toward them, and the quick, warm tears
Stood in my eyes. Forward I sprang to grasp
The hands that once so kindly met my own,—
I sprang, but met them not: the withering wind
Was there before me. Dwelling, field, and brook,
Dark wood, and flowery garden, and blue lake,
And beetling cliff, and noble human forms,
All, all had melted into that pale sea
Of billowy vapor rolling round my feet.

Roslyn, 1862. Atlantic Monthly, January, 1866.

FIFTY YEARS.

Long since a gallant youthful company
Went from these learned shades. The hand of Time
Hath scored, upon the perishing works of man,
The years of half a century since that day.
Forth to the world they went in hope, but some

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Fell at the threshold, some in mid-career
Sank down, and some who bring their frosty brows,
A living register of change, are here,
And from the spot where once they conned the words
Written by sages of the elder time
Look back on fifty years.
Large space are they
Of man's brief life, those fifty years; they join
Its ruddy morning to the paler light
Of its declining hours. In fifty years
As many generations of earth's flowers
Have sweetened the soft air of spring, and died.
As many harvests have, in turn, made green
The hills, and ripened into gold, and fallen
Before the sickle's edge. The sapling tree
Which then was planted stands a shaggy trunk,
Moss-grown, the centre of a mighty shade.
In fifty years the pasture grounds have oft
Renewed their herds and flocks, and from the stalls
New races of the generous steed have neighed
Or pranced in the smooth roads.
In fifty years
Ancestral crowns have dropped from kingly brows
For clownish heels to crush; new dynasties
Have climbed to empire, and new commonwealths
Have formed and fallen again to wreck, like clouds
Which the wind tears and scatters. Mighty names
Have blazed upon the world and passed away,
Their lustre lessening, like the faded train
Of a receding comet. Fifty years
Have given the mariner to outstrip the wind
With engines churning the black deep to foam,
And tamed the nimble lightnings, sending them
On messages for man, and forced the sun
To limn for man upon the snowy sheet
Whate'er he shines upon, and taught the art
To vex the pale dull clay beneath our feet
With chemic tortures, till the sullen mass
Flows in bright torrents from the furnace-mouth,
A shining metal, to be clay no more.

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Oh, were our growth in goodness like our growth
In art, the thousand years of innocence
And peace, foretold by ancient prophecy,
Were here already, and the reign of Sin
Were ended o'er the earth on which we dwell.

In fifty years, the little commonwealth,
Our league of States, that, in its early day,
Skirted the long Atlantic coast, has grown
To a vast empire, filled with populous towns
Beside its midland rivers, and beyond
The snowy peaks that bound its midland plains
To where its rivulets, over sands of gold,
Seek the Pacific—till at length it stood
Great 'mid the greatest of the Powers of Earth,
And they who sat upon Earth's ancient thrones
Beheld its growth in wonder and in awe.
In fifty years, a deadlier foe than they—
The Wrong that scoffs at human brotherhood
And holds the lash o'er millions—has become
So mighty and so insolent in its might
That now it springs to fix on Liberty
The death-gripe, and o'erturn the glorious realm
Her children founded here. Fierce is the strife,
As when of old the sinning angels strove
To whelm, beneath the uprooted hills of heaven,
The warriors of the Lord. Yet now, as then,
God and the Right shall give the victory.

For us, who fifty years ago went forth
Upon the world's great theatre, may we
Yet see the day of triumph, which the hours
On steady wing waft hither from the depths
Of a serener future; may we yet,
Beneath the reign of a new peace, behold
The shaken pillars of our commonwealth
Stand readjusted in their ancient poise,
And the great crime of which our strife was born
Perish with its accursèd progeny.

Roslyn, 1863.

For the fiftieth anniversary of the class of Williams College which was graduated in 1813.

389

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM LAS AURORAS DE DIANA. BY PEDRO DE CASTROY AÑAYA.

Bird of the joyous season!
That, from thy flowery seat,
Dost teach the forest singers
Thy music to repeat.

Thou wooer of the morning,
That, to this wood withdrawn,
Dost serenade the daybreak,
Dost celebrate the dawn.

Soul of this lonely region,
That hearest me lament,
My days in sighing wasted,
My nights in weeping spent.

Chief lyrist of the woodland,
And poet of the spring!
That well art skilled in sorrow,
And well of love canst sing.

Go where my lady loosens
Her bright hair to the wind,
Held in a single fillet,
Or floating unconfined.

The beautiful and cruel,
Whose steps, where'er they pass,
Tread down more hearts of lovers
Than lilies in the grass.

Sweet nightingale, accost her,
And, in thy tenderest strain,
Say Silvio loves thee: Cruel!
Why lov'st thou not again?

Then tell of all I suffer,
How well have loved and long,

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And counsel her to pity,
And tax her scorn with wrong.

My gentle Secretary!
If harshly then she speak,
Rebuke her anger, striking
Her red lips with thy beak.

Drink from her breath the fragrance
Of all the blooming year,
And bring me back the answer
For which I linger here.

February, 1864.

A LEGEND OF ST. MARTIN.

Shrewd was the good St. Martin; he was famed
For sly expedients and devices quaint;
And autumn's latest suny days are named
St. Martin's summer from the genial saint.
Large were his charities; one winter day
He saw a half-clad beggar in the way,
And stopped and said: “Well met, my friend, well met;
That nose of thine, I see, is quite too blue.”
With that his trenchant sword he drew—
For he was in the service yet—
And cut his military cloak in two;
And with a pleasant laugh
He bade the shivering rogue take half.

On one of the great roads of France
Two travellers were journeying on a day.
The saint drew near, as if by chance,
And joined them, walking the same way.
A shabby pair in truth were they,
For one was meanly covetous, and one
And envious wretch—so doth the legend run.
Yet courteously they greeted him, and talked
Of current topics; for example, whether

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There would be war, and what to-morrow's weather,
Cheating the weary furlongs as they walked.
And when the eventide drew near
Thus spoke the saint: “We part to-night;
I am St. Martin, and I give you here
The means to make your fortunes, used aright;
Let one of you think what will please him best,
And freely ask what I will freely give.
And he who asks not shall from me receive
Twice what the other gains by his request;
And now I take my leave.”
He spoke, and left the astonished men
Delighted with his words; but then
The question rose, which of that lucky pair
Should speak the wish and take the smaller share.
Each begged the other not to heed
The promptings of a selfish greed,
But frame at once, since he so well knew how,
The amplest, fullest wish that words allow.
“Dear comrade, act a princely part;
Lay every sordid thought aside;
Show thyself generous as thou art;
Take counsel of thy own large heart,
And nobly for our common good provide.”
But neither prayers nor flatteries availed;
They passed from these to threats, and threats too failed.
Thus went the pleadings on, until at last
The covetous man, his very blood on fire,
Flew at his fellow's throat and clenched it fast,
And shrieked: “Die, then, or do what I require;
Die, strangled like a dog.” That taunt awoke
A fierce anger in his envious mate,
And merged the thirst of gain in bitter hate;
And with a half-choked voice he spoke,
Dissembling his malign intent,
“Take off thy hand and I consent.”
The grasp was loosened, and he raised a shout,
“I wish that one of my own eyes were out.”
The wish was gratified as soon as heard.
St. Martin punctually kept his word.

392

The envious man was one-eyed from that day,
The other blind for his whole life remained.
And this was all the good that either gained
From the saint's offer in the public way.

Roslyn, 1865.

THE WORDS OF THE KORAN.

FROM THE GERMAN OF ZEDLITZ.

Emir Hassan, of the prophet's race,
Asked with folded hands the Almighty's grace.
Then within the banquet-hall he sat
At his meal upon the embroidered mat.

There a slave before him placed the food,
Spilling from the charger, as he stood,
Awkwardly, upon the Emir's breast,
Drops that foully stained the silken vest.

To the floor, in great remorse and dread,
Fell the slave, and thus beseeching said:
“Master! they who hasten to restrain
Rising wrath, in Paradise shall reign.”

Gentle was the answer Hassan gave:
“I'm not angry.” “Yet,” pursued the slave,
“Yet doth higher recompense belong
To the injured who forgives a wrong.”

“I forgive,” said Hassan. “Yet we read,”
Thus the prostrate slave went on to plead,
“That a higher place in glory still
Waits the man who renders good for ill.”

“Slave, receive thy freedom, and behold
In thy hands I lay a purse of gold;
Let me never fail to heed in aught
What the prophet of our God hath taught.”

November, 1865.

393

THE POET'S FIRST SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN OF HOUWALD.

Already had I travelled,
O'er half the globe alone;
The tongues of other nations,
I knew them like my own.

And great men called me brother
In many a distant land,
And many a mighty monarch
In greeting gave his hand.

Amid Pompeii's ruins,
Amid the Switzer's snows,
And by the mounds of Egypt,
And where La Plata flows,

I stood and sang my verses;
And what the poet said
Thrilled through the hearts of thousands,
By eager thousands read.

A star upon my bosom,
A heaven within, I came
All conscious of the glory
That gathered round my name—

Came from afar to visit
The little mound of earth
Where stood my father's cottage,
The vale that saw my birth.

And now from the last hill-top,
The boundary-stone beside,
O'er that small shady valley
I cast a look of pride.

394

And, glorying in my fortunes,
I said, I thank thee, Fate,
I who went forth so humble,
That I come back so great.

Then up the hill came toiling
A woman faint and pale,
And with two lovely children
Sat looking down the vale.

And soon I heard her singing
A simple little lay—
A strain that moved me strangely,
Though why I could not say.

So timidly I asked her
Whence came that simple rhyme;
“From happy days,” she answered,
“A long-remembered time.”

“On parting with the maiden,
A youth composed the song.”—
Ah, then I knew the verses,—
My first—forgotten long.

And eagerly I questioned,
“Who gave the song to thee?”
She blushed. “No mortal knoweth,”
She said, “save only me.”

“Thou art the poet's Mary?”
Her silence owned it true.
“But whither went the poet?”
“Ah, that I never knew.”

“Hast heard of him no further?”
“No, never since that day.”
“Wrote he no other verses?”
“In truth, I cannot say.”

“His name?” “Nay, gentle stranger,
Ask not the name he bore;

395

Perhaps I, too, may know him,
But me he knows no more.”

“Yet once again, I pray thee,
Sing that sweet melody.”
“Not now. My husband yonder
Waits for my babes and me.”

She spoke, and then descended
To join him where he stood;
Upon his arm he took her,
And led the little brood.

Here stood a mighty poet,
His name by thousands known;
But in his native valley
To one and one alone.

And lost in sadder musings
Than when he went away,
Surrendered all his honors
To that forgotten lay.

Roslyn, November, 1873. The Mayflower, April, 1876.

THE ASCENSION.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.

Good Shepherd, wilt thou leave
In this low vale the flock that was thy care
Alone to pine and grieve,
While through the purer air
Thou risest up to fields forever fair?

They who, supremely blest,
Until the dawn of this unhappy day
Leaned on thy loving breast,
To whom on earth shall they
Hearken or look when thou art far away?

396

What comeliness or grace
Can they whose eyes beheld thy beauty see
In other form or face?
What music will not be
Harsh to the ears that hearkened once to thee?

Who now upon the deep
Shall look, and curb its fury? Who shall lay
The stormy winds asleep?
What lode-star's friendly ray,
When thine is hid, shall guide the vessel's way?

Why change our happy state,
O envious cloud! to helplessness and fear?
How proud of their rich freight
Thy shining folds appear!
How blind and wretched thou dost leave us here!

New York, December, 1875. Independent, 1875.

THE MYSTERY OF FLOWERS.

Not idly do I stray
At prime, where far the mountain ridges run,
And note, along my way,
Each flower that opens in the early sun;
Or gather blossoms by the valley's spring,
When the sun sets and dancing insects sing.

Each has her moral rede,
Each of the gentle family of flowers;
And I with patient heed,
Oft spell their lessons in my graver hours.
The faintest streak that on a petal lies,
May speak instruction to initiate eyes.

Cummington, 1840.

And well do poets teach
Each blossom's charming mystery; declare,

397

In clear melodious speech,
The silent admonitions pencilled there;
And from the Love of Beauty, aptly taught,
Lead to a higher good, the willing thought.

Roslyn, 1875.

THE DEAD PATRIARCH.

Old Tree! thy branches, fifty years ago,
Thick set with spray and leaf, and widely spread,
Made a faint twilight on the ground below,
And never-ending murmurs overhead.

But now unheard the winds go wandering by;
From thy dead stem the boughs have dropped away;
And on its summit, perched in middle sky,
The clear-eyed hawk sits watching for his prey.

Henceforth, the softening rain and rending blast,
Summer's fierce heat, and winter's splintering cold,
Shall slowly waste thee, till thou lie at last
On the damp earth, a heap of yellow mould.

Thou wert a sapling once, with delicate sprays,
And from that mould another sapling tree
May rise and flourish, in the coming days,
When none who dwell on earth remember thee.

Roslyn, April, 1876.

A SONNET.

TO ---.

Youth, whose ingenuous nature, just and kind,
Looks from that gentle eye, that open brow,
Wilt thou be ever thus, in heart and mind,
As guileless and as merciful as now?

398

Behold this streamlet, whose sweet waters wind
Among green knolls unbroken by the plough,
Where wild-flowers woo the bee and wild-birds find
Safe nests and secret in the cedar bough.
This stream must reach the sea, and then no more
Its purity and peaceful mood shall keep,
But change to bitter brine, and madly roar
Among the breakers there, and toss and leap,
And dash the helpless bark against the shore,
And whelm the drowning seamen in the deep.

Roslyn, November, 1876.

THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON.

On this fair valley's grassy breast
The calm, sweet rays of summer rest,
And dove-like peace divinely broods
On its smooth lawns and solemn woods.

A century since, in flame and smoke,
The storm of battle o'er it broke;
And ere the invader turned and fled,
These pleasant fields were strown with dead.

Stark, quick to act and bold to dare,
And Warner's mountain band were there;
And Allen, who had flung the pen
Aside to lead the Berkshire men.

With fiery onset—blow on blow—
They rushed upon the embattled foe,
And swept his squadrons from the vale,
Like leaves before the autumn gale.

Oh! never may the purple stain
Of combat blot these fields again,

399

Nor this fair valley ever cease
To wear the placid smile of peace.

But we, beside this battle-field,
Will plight the vow that ere we yield
The right for which our fathers bled,
Our blood shall steep the ground we tread.

And men shall hold the memory dear
Of those who fought for freedom here,
And guard the heritage they won
While these green hill-sides feel the sun.

August, 1877.

Written for the hundredth anniversary of the battle of Bennington, August 16, 1877.

IN MEMORY OF JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY.

Sleep, Motley! with the great of ancient days,
Who wrote for all the years that yet shall be;
Sleep with Herodotus, whose name and praise
Have reached the isles of earth's remotest sea;
Sleep, while, defiant of the slow decays
Of time, thy glorious writings speak for thee,
And in the answering heart of millions raise
The generous zeal for Right and Liberty.
And should the day o'ertake us when, at last,
The silence that, ere yet a human pen
Had traced the slenderest record of the past—
Hushed the primeval languages of men—
Upon our English tongue its spell shall cast,
Thy memory shall perish only then.

New York, September, 1877. International Review, September, 1877.

THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY.

Pale is the February sky,
And brief the mid-day's sunny hours;
The wind-swept forest seems to sigh
For the sweet time of leaves and flowers.

400

Yet has no month a prouder day,
Not even when the summer broods
O'er meadows in their fresh array,
Or autumn tints the glowing woods.

For this chill season now again
Brings, in its annual round, the morn
When, greatest of the sons of men,
Our glorious Washington was born.

Lo, where, beneath an icy shield,
Calmly the mighty Hudson flows!
By snow-clad fell and frozen field,
Broadening, the lordly river goes.

The wildest storm that sweeps through space,
And rends the oak with sudden force,
Can raise no ripple on his face,
Or slacken his majestic course.

Thus, 'mid the wreck of thrones, shall live
Unmarred, undimmed, our hero's fame,
And years succeeding years shall give
Increase of honors to his name.

New York, February, 1878. Sunday School Times.

CERVANTES.

As o'er the laughter-moving page
Thy readers, oh, Cervantes, bend,
What shouts of mirth, through age on age,
From every clime of earth ascend!

For not in thy fair Spain alone,
But in the sunny tropic isles,

401

And far, to either frozen zone,
Thy memory lives embalmed in smiles.

Dark woods, when thou didst hold the pen,
Clothed this great land from sea to sea,
Where millions of the sons of men
Now take delight in honoring thee.

To thy renown the centuries bring
No shadow of a coming night.
The keen, bright shafts which thou didst fling
At folly still are keen and bright.

Written for a celebration by the Spanish residents of New York, in honor of Cervantes, April 23, 1878, the anniversary of his death.