Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 16

A SUMMER RAMBLE.

The quiet August noon has come; A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In gla.s.sy sleep the waters lie.

And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Above our vale, a moveless throng; The cattle on the mountain's breast Enjoy the grateful shadow long.

Oh, how unlike those merry hours, In early June, when Earth laughs out, When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout.

When in the gra.s.s sweet voices talk, And strains of tiny music swell From every moss-cup of the rock, From every nameless blossom's bell.

But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, The blessing of supreme repose.

Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care, Away from desk and dust! away!

I'll be as idle as the air.

Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of G.o.d, I'll share the calm the season brings.

Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meanings of thy heart, One day amid the woods with me, From men and all their cares apart.

And where, upon the meadow's breast, The shadow of the thicket lies, The blue wild-flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes.

Come, and when mid the calm profound, I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, They, like the lovely landscape round, Of innocence and peace shall speak.

Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, And on the silent valleys gaze, Winding and widening, till they fade In yon soft ring of summer haze.

The village trees their summits rear Still as its spire, and yonder flock At rest in those calm fields appear As chiselled from the lifeless rock.

One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks-- There the hushed winds their sabbath keep, While a near hum from bees and brooks Comes faintly like the breath of sleep.

Well may the gazer deem that when, Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, The good forsakes the scene of life;

Like this deep quiet that, awhile, Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, Shall be the peace whose holy smile Welcomes him to a happier sh.o.r.e.

A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON.

Cool shades and dews are round my way, And silence of the early day; Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, Unrippled, save by drops that fall From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; And o'er the clear still water swells The music of the Sabbath bells.

All, save this little nook of land, Circled with trees, on which I stand; All, save that line of hills which lie Suspended in the mimic sky-- Seems a blue void, above, below, Through which the white clouds come and go; And from the green world's farthest steep I gaze into the airy deep.

Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pa.s.s away.

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

Even love, long tried and cherished long, Becomes more tender and more strong At thought of that insatiate grave From which its yearnings cannot save.

River! in this still hour thou hast Too much of heaven on earth to last; Nor long may thy still waters lie, An image of the glorious sky.

Thy fate and mine are not repose, And ere another evening close, Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, And I to seek the crowd of men.

THE HURRICANE.

Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky!

And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere, Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray-- A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath.

To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound.

He is come! he is come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled?

Giant of air! we bid thee hail!-- How his gray skirts tops in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible s.p.a.ce.

Darker--still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air: And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of G.o.d in the thunder-cloud!

You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

What roar is that?--'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round.

Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds!--ye are lost to my eyes.

I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through s.p.a.ce, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all And I, cut off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane.

WILLIAM TELL.

Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, TELL, of the iron heart! they could not tame!

For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim The everlasting creed of liberty.

That creed is written on the untrampled snow, Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, Save that of G.o.d, when He sends forth His cold, And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow.

Thou, while thy prison-walls were dark around, Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, And to thy brief captivity was brought A vision of thy Switzerland unbound.

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee For the great work to set thy country free.

THE HUNTER'S SERENADE.

Thy bower is finished, fairest!

Fit bower for hunter's bride, Where old woods overshadow The green savanna's side.

I've wandered long, and wandered far, And never have I met, In all this lovely Western land, A spot so lovely yet.