Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 34

How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcome rung, And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!

And He who, long before, Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; He who returning, glorious, from the grave, Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.

Oh, gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear.

Brief is the time, I know, The warfare scarce begun; Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.

Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee, The victors' names are yet too few to fill Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory, That ministered to thee, is open still.

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.

Come, let us plant the apple-tree.

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infant's feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet: So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant gra.s.s Betrays their bed to those who pa.s.s, At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.

The years shall come and pa.s.s, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple-tree.

Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this little apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?"

The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, On planting the apple-tree."

THE SNOW-SHOWER.

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes; The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies; And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow; Flake after flake They sink in the dark and silent lake.

See how in a living swarm they come From the chambers beyond that misty veil; Some hover awhile in air, and some Rush p.r.o.ne from the sky like summer hail.

All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, Meet, and are still in the depths below; Flake after flake Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, Come floating downward in airy play, Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd That whiten by night the milky way; There broader and burlier ma.s.ses fall; The sullen water buries them all-- Flake after flake-- All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

And some, as on tender wings they glide From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, Come clinging along their unsteady way; As friend with friend, or husband with wife, Makes hand in hand the pa.s.sage of life; Each mated flake Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height.

The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake!

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, Who were for a time, and now are not; Like these fair children of cloud and frost, That glisten a moment and then are lost, Flake after flake-- All lost in the dark and silent lake.

Yet look again, for the clouds divide; A gleam of blue on the water lies; And far away, on the mountain-side, A sunbeam falls from the opening skies, But the hurrying host that flew between The cloud and the water, no more is seen; Flake after flake, At rest in the dark and silent lake.

A RAIN-DREAM.

These strifes, these tumults of the noisy world, Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth, And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt, Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend, In what serener mood we look upon The gloomiest aspects of the elements Among the woods and fields! Let us awhile, As the slow wind is rolling up the storm, In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets, Forever shaken by the importunate jar Of commerce, and upon the darkening air Look from the shelter of our rural home.

Who is not awed that listens to the Rain, Sending his voice before him? Mighty Rain!

The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists; Thy shadow fills the hollow vale; the pools No longer glimmer, and the silvery streams Darken to veins of lead at thy approach.

O mighty Rain! already thou art here; And every roof is beaten by thy streams, And, as thou pa.s.sest, every gla.s.sy spring Grows rough, and every leaf in all the woods Is struck, and quivers. All the hill-tops slake Their thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields, A thousand fainting gardens, are refreshed; A thousand idle rivulets start to speed, And with the graver murmur of the storm Blend their light voices as they hurry on.

Thou fill'st the circle of the atmosphere Alone; there is no living thing abroad, No bird to wing the air nor beast to walk The field; the squirrel in the forest seeks His hollow tree; the marmot of the field Has scampered to his den; the b.u.t.terfly Hides under her broad leaf; the insect crowds, That made the sunshine populous, lie close In their mysterious shelters, whence the sun Will summon them again. The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.

I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream, The friendly clouds drop down spring violets And summer columbines, and all the flowers That tuft the woodland floor, or overarch The streamlet:--spiky gra.s.s for genial June, Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman, And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves.

I see these myriad drops that slake the dust, Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blue In billows on the lake or on the deep, And bearing navies. I behold them change To threads of crystal as they sink in earth And leave its stains behind, to rise again In pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child, Thirsty with play, in both his little hands Shall take the cool, clear water, raising it To wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noon How proudly will the water-lily ride The br.i.m.m.i.n.g pool, o'erlooking, like a queen, Her circle of broad leaves! In lonely wastes, When next the sunshine makes them beautiful, Gay troops of b.u.t.terflies shall light to drink At the replenished hollows of the rock.

Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still, All through the starless hours, the mighty Rain Smites with perpetual sound the forest-leaves, And beats the matted gra.s.s, and still the earth Drinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds-- Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks-- Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling bee, And brooding bird--drinks for her tender flowers, Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills.

A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night; A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud, In the black shadow and the chilly mist, Along the streaming mountain-side, and through The dripping woods, and o'er the plashy fields, Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makes The journey of life alone, and nowhere meets A welcome or a friend, and still goes on In darkness. Yet a while, a little while, And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play, And dally with the flowers, and gayly lift The slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain, And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky, White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest.

Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Pa.s.sing at home a patient life, Broods in the gra.s.s while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note.

Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!

Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!

There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about.