Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 15

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles; Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

Gather him to his grave again, And solemnly and softly lay, Beneath the verdure of the plain, The warrior's scattered bones away.

Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, The homage of man's heart to death; Nor dare to trifle with the mould Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.

The soul hath quickened every part-- That remnant of a martial brow, Those ribs that held the mighty heart, That strong arm--strong no longer now.

Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, Of G.o.d's own image; let them rest, Till not a trace shall speak of where The awful likeness was impressed.

For he was fresher from the hand That formed of earth the human face, And to the elements did stand In nearer kindred than our race.

In many a flood to madness tossed, In many a storm has been his path; He hid him not from heat or frost, But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind--the forests here, Rivers, and stiller waters, paid A tribute to the net and spear Of the red ruler of the shade.

Fruits on the woodland branches lay, Roots in the shaded soil below; The stars looked forth to teach his way; The still earth warned him of the foe.

A n.o.ble race! but they are gone, With their old forests wide and deep, And we have built our homes upon Fields where their generations sleep.

Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, Upon their fields our harvest waves, Our lovers woo beneath their moon-- Then let us spare, at least, their graves.

MIDSUMMER.

A power is on the earth and in the air From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam and from the fiery glare.

Look forth upon the earth--her thousand plants Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze; The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; For life is driven from all the landscape brown; The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town; As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent Its deadly breath into the firmament.

THE GREEK PARTISAN.

Our free flag is dancing In the free mountain air, And burnished arms are glancing, And warriors gathering there; And fearless is the little train Whose gallant bosoms shield it; The blood that warms their hearts shall stain That banner, ere they yield it.

--Each dark eye is fixed on earth, And brief each solemn greeting; There is no look nor sound of mirth, Where those stern men are meeting.

They go to the slaughter To strike the sudden blow, And pour on earth, like water, The best blood of the foe; To rush on them from rock and height, And clear the narrow valley, Or fire their camp at dead of night, And fly before they rally.

--Chains are round our country pressed, And cowards have betrayed her, And we must make her bleeding breast The grave of the invader.

Not till from her fetters We raise up Greece again, And write, in b.l.o.o.d.y letters, That tyranny is slain,-- Oh, not till then the smile shall steal Across those darkened faces, Nor one of all those warriors feel His children's dear embraces.

--Reap we not the ripened wheat, Till yonder hosts are flying, And all their bravest, at our feet, Like autumn sheaves are lying.

THE TWO GRAVES.

'Tis a bleak wild hill, but green and bright In the summer warmth and the mid-day light; There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren And the dash of the brook from the alder-glen.

There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath;-- There is nothing here that speaks of death.

Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie, And dwellings cl.u.s.ter, 'tis there men die, They are born, they die, and are buried near, Where the populous graveyard lightens the bier.

For strict and close are the ties that bind In death the children of human-kind; Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,-- 'Tis a neighborhood that knows no strife.

They are noiselessly gathered--friend and foe-- To the still and dark a.s.semblies below.

Without a frown or a smile they meet, Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet; In that sullen home of peace and gloom, Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room.

Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, Two humble graves,--but I meet them not.

I have seen them,--eighteen years are past Since I found their place in the brambles last,-- The place where, fifty winters ago An aged man in his locks of snow, And an aged matron, withered with years, Were solemnly laid!--but not with tears.

For none, who sat by the light of their hearth, Beheld their coffins covered with earth; Their kindred were far, and their children dead, When the funeral-prayer was coldly said.

Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones, Rose over the place that held their bones; But the gra.s.sy hillocks are levelled again, And the keenest eye might search in vain, 'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, For the spot where the aged couple sleep.

Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil Of this lonely spot, that man of toil, And trench the strong hard mould with the spade, Where never before a grave was made; For he hewed the dark old woods away, And gave the virgin fields to the day; And the gourd and the bean, beside his door, Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened before; And the maize stood up, and the bearded rye Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky.

'Tis said that when life is ended here, The spirit is borne to a distant sphere; That it visits its earthly home no more, Nor looks on the haunts it loved before.

But why should the bodiless soul be sent Far off, to a long, long banishment?

Talk not of the light and the living green!

It will pine for the dear familiar scene; It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to behold The rock and the stream it knew of old.

'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not!

Death to the good is a milder lot.

They are here,--they are here,--that harmless pair, In the yellow sunshine and flowing air, In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pa.s.s, In the sounds that rise from the murmuring gra.s.s.

They sit where their humble cottage stood, They walk by the waving edge of the wood, And list to the long-accustomed flow Of the brook that wets the rocks below, Patient, and peaceful, and pa.s.sionless, As seasons on seasons swiftly press, They watch, and wait, and linger around, Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground.

THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS.

I would not always reason. The straight path Wearies us with the never-varying lines, And we grow melancholy. I would make Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit Patiently by the way-side, while I traced The mazes of the pleasant wilderness Around me. She should be my counsellor, But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs Impulses from a deeper source than hers, And there are motions, in the mind of man, That she must look upon with awe. I bow Reverently to her dictates, but not less Hold to the fair illusions of old time-- Illusions that shed brightness over life, And glory over Nature. Look, even now, Where two bright planets in the twilight meet, Upon the saffron heaven,--the imperial star Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe, Awhile, that they are met for ends of good, Amid the evening glory, to confer Of men and their affairs, and to shed down Kind influence. Lo! they brighten as we gaze, And shake out softer fires! The great earth feels The gladness and the quiet of the time.

Meekly the mighty river, that infolds This mighty city, smooths his front, and far Glitters and burns even the rocky base Of the dark heights that bound him to the west; And a deep murmur, from the many streets, Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence Dark and sad thoughts awhile--there's time for them Hereafter--on the morrow we will meet, With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs, And make each other wretched; this calm hour, This balmy, blessed evening, we will give To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days, Born of the meeting of those glorious stars.

Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits.

The dog-star shall shine harmless: genial days Shall softly glide away into the keen And wholesome cold of winter; he that fears The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams, And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air.

Emblems of power and beauty! well may they Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw Toward the great Pacific, marking out The path of empire. Thus in our own land, Ere long, the better Genius of our race, Having encompa.s.sed earth, and tamed its tribes, Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west, By the sh.o.r.e of that calm ocean, and look back On realms made happy.

Light the nuptial torch, And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits The youth and maiden. Happy days to them That wed this evening!--a long life of love, And blooming sons and daughters! Happy they Born at this hour, for they shall see an age Whiter and holier than the past, and go Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts, And shudder at the butcheries of war, As now at other murders.

Hapless Greece!

Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained Thy rivers; deep enough thy chains have worn Their links into thy flesh; the sacrifice Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes, And reverend priests, has expiated all Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights There is an omen of good days for thee.

Thou shalt arise from midst the dust and sit Again among the nations. Thine own arm Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings,-- Despot with despot battling for a throne,-- And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms, Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall Upon each other, and in all their bounds The wailing of the childless shall not cease.

Thine is a war for liberty, and thou Must fight it single-handed. The old world Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race, And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new,-- I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale Of fraud and l.u.s.t of gain;--thy treasury drained, And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand, And G.o.d and thy good sword shall yet work out, For thee, a terrible deliverance.