Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 43

Two men and three, in that abundant store, Might bide the winter-storm, though keen the cold.

Ulysses, the great sufferer, on his couch Looked and rejoiced, and placed himself within, And heaped the leaves high o'er him and around.

As one who, dwelling in the distant fields, Without a neighbor near him, hides a brand In the dark ashes, keeping carefully The seeds of fire alive, lest he, perforce, To light his hearth must bring them from afar; So did Ulysses, in that pile of leaves, Bury himself, while Pallas o'er his eyes Poured sleep and closed his lids, that he might take, After his painful toils, the fitting rest.

THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW.

_Alice._--One of your old-world stories, Uncle John, Such as you tell us by the winter fire, Till we all wonder it is grown so late.

_Uncle John._--The story of the witch that ground to death Two children in her mill, or will you have The tale of Goody Cutpurse?

_Alice._--Nay now, nay; Those stories are too childish, Uncle John, Too childish even for little w.i.l.l.y here, And I am older, two good years, than he; No, let us have a tale of elves that ride, By night, with jingling reins, or gnomes of the mine, Or water-fairies, such as you know how To spin, till w.i.l.l.y's eyes forget to wink, And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, Lays down her knitting.

_Uncle John._--Listen to me, then.

'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, And long before the great oak at our door Was yet an acorn, on a mountain's side Lived, with his wife, a cottager. They dwelt Beside a glen and near a clashing brook, A pleasant spot in spring, where first the wren Was heard to chatter, and, among the gra.s.s, Flowers opened earliest; but when winter came, That little brook was fringed with other flowers,-- White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, that grew In clear November nights. And, later still, That mountain-glen was filled with drifted snows From side to side, that one might walk across; While, many a fathom deep, below, the brook Sang to itself, and leaped and trotted on Unfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward the vale.

_Alice._--A mountain-side, you said; the Alps, perhaps, Or our own Alleghanies.

_Uncle John._--_Not _so fast, My young geographer, for then the Alps, With their broad pastures, haply were untrod Of herdsman's foot, and never human voice Had sounded in the woods that overhang Our Alleghany's streams. _I _think it was Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, Or where the rivulets of Ararat Seek the Armenian vales. That mountain rose So high, that, on its top, the winter-snow Was never melted, and the cottagers Among the summer-blossoms, far below, Saw its white peaks in August from their door.

One little maiden, in that cottage-home, Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb, Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there, Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean-waves, And sometimes she forgot what she was bid, As Alice does.

_Alice._--Or w.i.l.l.y, quite as oft.

_Uncle John._--But you are older, Alice, two good years, And should be wiser. Eva was the name Of this young maiden, now twelve summers old.

Now you must know that, in those early times, When autumn days grew pale, there came a troop Of childlike forms from that cold mountain-top; With trailing garments through the air they came, Or walked the ground with girded loins, and threw Spangles of silvery frost upon the gra.s.s, And edged the brooks with glistening parapets, And built it crystal bridges, touched the pool, And turned its face to gla.s.s, or, rising thence, They shook from their full laps the soft, light snow, And buried the great earth, as autumn winds Bury the forest-floor in heaps of leaves.

A beautiful race were they, with baby brows, And fair, bright locks, and voices like the sound Of steps on the crisp snow, in which they talked With man, as friend with friend. A merry sight It was, when, crowding round the traveller, They smote him with their heaviest snow-flakes, flung Needles of frost in handfuls at his cheeks, And, of the light wreaths of his smoking breath, Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, and laughed Their slender laugh to see him wink and grin And make grim faces as he floundered on.

But, when the spring came on, what terror reigned Among these Little People of the Snow!

To them the sun's warm beams were shafts of fire, And the soft south-wind was the wind of death.

Away they flew, all with a pretty scowl Upon their childish faces, to the north, Or scampered upward to the mountain's top, And there defied their enemy, the Spring; Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks, And moulding little snow-b.a.l.l.s in their palms, And rolling them, to crush her flowers below, Down the steep snow-fields.

_Alice._--That, too, must have been A merry sight to look at.

_Uncle John._--You are right, But I must speak of graver matters now.

Midwinter was the time, and Eva stood, Within the cottage, all prepared to dare The outer cold, with ample furry robe Close-belted round her waist, and boots of fur, And a broad kerchief, which her mother's hand Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek.

"Now, stay not long abroad," said the good dame, "For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well, Go not upon the snow beyond the spot Where the great linden bounds the neighboring field."

The little maiden promised, and went forth, And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm with frost Beneath her feet, and slid, with balancing arms, Into the hollows. Once, as up a drift She slowly rose, before her, in the way, She saw a little creature, lily-cheeked, With flowing flaxen locks, and faint blue eyes, That gleamed like ice, and robe that only seemed Of a more shadowy whiteness than her cheek.

On a smooth bank she sat.

_Alice._--She must have been One of your Little People of the Snow.

_Uncle John._--She was so, and, as Eva now drew near, The tiny creature bounded from her seat; "And come," she said, "my pretty friend; to-day We will be playmates. I have watched thee long, And seen how well thou lov'st to walk these drifts, And scoop their fair sides into little cells, And carve them with quaint figures, huge-limbed men, Lions, and griffins. We will have, to-day, A merry ramble over these bright fields, And thou shalt see what thou hast never seen."

On went the pair, until they reached the bound Where the great linden stood, set deep in snow, Up to the lower branches. "Here we stop,"

Said Eva, "for my mother has my word That I will go no farther than this tree."

Then the snow-maiden laughed: "And what is this?

This fear of the pure snow, the innocent snow, That never harmed aught living? Thou mayst roam For leagues beyond this garden, and return In safety; here the grim wolf never prowls, And here the eagle of our mountain-crags Preys not in winter. I will show the way, And bring thee safely home. Thy mother, sure, Counselled thee thus because thou hadst no guide."

By such smooth words was Eva won to break Her promise, and went on with her new friend, Over the glistening snow and down a bank Where a white shelf, wrought by the eddying wind, Like to a billow's crest in the great sea, Curtained an opening. "Look, we enter here."

And straight, beneath the fair o'erhanging fold, Entered the little pair that hill of snow, Walking along a pa.s.sage with white walls, And a white vault above where snow-stars shed A wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe, And held her peace, but the snow-maiden smiled, And talked and tripped along, as down the way, Deeper they went into that mountainous drift.

And now the white walls widened, and the vault Swelled upward, like some vast cathedral-dome, Such as the Florentine, who bore the name Of heaven's most potent angel, reared, long since, Or the unknown builder of that wondrous fane, The glory of Burgos. Here a garden lay, In which the Little People of the Snow Were wont to take their pastime when their tasks Upon the mountain's side and in the clouds Were ended. Here they taught the silent frost To mock, in stem and spray, and leaf and flower, The growths of summer. Here the palm upreared Its white columnar trunk and spotless sheaf Of plume-like leaves; here cedars, huge as those Of Lebanon, stretched far their level boughs, Yet pale and shadowless; the st.u.r.dy oak Stood, with its huge gnarled roots of seeming strength, Fast anch.o.r.ed in the glistening bank; light sprays Of myrtle, roses in their bud and bloom, Drooped by the winding walks; yet all seemed wrought Of stainless alabaster; up the trees Ran the lithe jessamine, with stalk and leaf Colorless as her flowers. "Go softly on,"

Said the snow-maiden; "touch not, with thy hand, The frail creation round thee, and beware To sweep it with thy skirts. Now look above.

How sumptuously these bowers are lighted up With shifting gleams that softly come and go!

These are the northern lights, such as thou seest In the midwinter nights, cold, wandering flames, That float with our processions, through the air; And here, within our winter palaces, Mimic the glorious daybreak." Then she told How, when the wind, in the long winter nights, Swept the light snows into the hollow dell, She and her comrades guided to its place Each wandering flake, and piled them quaintly up, In shapely colonnade and glistening arch, With shadowy aisles between, or bade them grow, Beneath their little hands, to bowery walks In gardens such as these, and, o'er them all, Built the broad roof. "But thou hast yet to see A fairer sight," she said, and led the way To where a window of pellucid ice Stood in the wall of snow, beside their path.

"Look, but thou mayst not enter." Eva looked, And lo! a glorious hall, from whose high vault Stripes of soft light, ruddy and delicate green, And tender blue, flowed downward to the floor And far around, as if the aerial hosts, That march on high by night, with beamy spears, And streaming banners, to that place had brought Their radiant flags to grace a festival.

And in that hall a joyous mult.i.tude Of these by whom its glistening walls were reared, Whirled in a merry dance to silvery sounds, That rang from cymbals of transparent ice, And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful touch Of little fingers. Round and round they flew, As when, in spring, about a chimney-top, A cloud of twittering swallows, just returned, Wheel round and round, and turn and wheel again, Unwinding their swift track. So rapidly Flowed the meandering stream of that fair dance, Beneath that dome of light. Bright eyes that looked From under lily-brows, and gauzy scarfs Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the early sun, Shot by the window in their mazy whirl.

And there stood Eva, wondering at the sight Of those bright revellers and that graceful sweep Of motion as they pa.s.sed her;--long she gazed, And listened long to the sweet sounds that thrilled The frosty air, till now the encroaching cold Recalled her to herself. "Too long, too long I linger here," she said, and then she sprang Into the path, and with a hurried step Followed it upward. Ever by her side Her little guide kept pace. As on they went, Eva bemoaned her fault: "What must they think-- The dear ones in the cottage, while so long, Hour after hour, I stay without? I know That they will seek me far and near, and weep To find me not. How could I, wickedly, Neglect the charge they gave me?" As she spoke, The hot tears started to her eyes; she knelt In the mid-path. "Father! forgive this sin; Forgive myself I cannot"--thus she prayed, And rose and hastened onward. When, at last, They reached the outer air, the clear north breathed A bitter cold, from which she shrank with dread, But the snow-maiden bounded as she felt The cutting blast, and uttered shouts of joy, And skipped, with boundless glee, from drift to drift, And danced round Eva, as she labored up The mounds of snow. "Ah me! I feel my eyes Grow heavy," Eva said; "they swim with sleep; I cannot walk for utter weariness, And I must rest a moment on this bank, But let it not be long." As thus she spoke, In half formed words, she sank on the smooth snow, With closing lids. Her guide composed the robe About her limbs, and said: "A pleasant spot Is this to slumber in; on such a couch Oft have I slept away the winter night, And had the sweetest dreams." So Eva slept, But slept in death; for when the power of frost Locks up the motions of the living frame, The victim pa.s.ses to the realm of Death Through the dim porch of Sleep. The little guide, Watching beside her, saw the hues of life Fade from the fair smooth brow and rounded cheek, As fades the crimson from a morning cloud, Till they were white as marble, and the breath Had ceased to come and go, yet knew she not At first that this was death. But when she marked How deep the paleness was, how motionless That once lithe form, a fear came over her.

She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked her robe, And shouted in her ear, but all in vain; The life had pa.s.sed away from those young limbs.

Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing cry, Such as the dweller in some lonely wild, Sleepless through all the long December night, Hears when the mournful East begins to blow.

But suddenly was heard the sound of steps, Grating on the crisp snow; the cottagers Were seeking Eva; from afar they saw The twain, and hurried toward them. As they came With gentle chidings ready on their lips, And marked that deathlike sleep, and heard the tale Of the snow-maiden, mortal anguish fell Upon their hearts, and bitter words of grief And blame were uttered: "Cruel, cruel one, To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel we, Who suffered her to wander forth alone In this fierce cold!" They lifted the dear child, And bore her home and chafed her tender limbs, And strove, by all the simple arts they knew, To make the chilled blood move, and win the breath Back to her bosom; fruitlessly they strove; The little maid was dead. In blank despair They stood, and gazed at her who never more Should look on them. "Why die we not with her?"

They said; "without her, life is bitterness."

Now came the funeral-day; the simple folk Of all that pastoral region gathered round To share the sorrow of the cottagers.

They carved a way into the mound of snow To the glen's side, and dug a little grave In the smooth slope, and, following the bier, In long procession from the silent door, Chanted a sad and solemn melody: "Lay her away to rest within the ground.

Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent life Was spotless as these snows; for she was reared In love, and pa.s.sed in love life's pleasant spring, And all that now our tenderest love can do Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs."

They paused. A thousand slender voices round, Like echoes softly flung from rock and hill, Took up the strain, and all the hollow air Seemed mourning for the dead; for, on that day, The Little People of the Snow had come, From mountain-peak, and cloud, and icy hall, To Eva's burial. As the murmur died, The funeral-train renewed the solemn chant: "Thou, Lord, hast taken her to be with Eve, Whose gentle name was given her. Even so, For so Thy wisdom saw that it was best For her and us. We bring our bleeding hearts, And ask the touch of healing from Thy hand, As, with submissive tears, we render back The lovely and beloved to Him who gave."

They ceased. Again the plaintive murmur rose.

From shadowy skirts of low-hung cloud it came, And wide white fields, and fir-trees capped with snow, Shivering to the sad sounds. They sank away To silence in the dim-seen distant woods.

The little grave was closed; the funeral-train Departed; winter wore away; the Spring Steeped, with her quickening rains, the violet-tufts, By fond hands planted where the maiden slept.

But, after Eva's burial, never more The Little People of the Snow were seen By human eye, nor ever human ear Heard from their lips articulate speech again; For a decree went forth to cut them off, Forever, from communion with mankind.

The winter-clouds, along the mountain-side, Rolled downward toward the vale, but no fair form Leaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens, And aged woods, under snow-loaded pines, Where once they made their haunt, was emptiness.

But ever, when the wintry days drew near, Around that little grave, in the long night, Frost-wreaths were laid and tufts of silvery rime In shape like blades and blossoms of the field, As one would scatter flowers upon a bier.

THE POET.

Thou, who wouldst wear the name Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind, And clothe in words of flame Thoughts that shall live within the general mind!

Deem not the framing of a deathless lay The pastime of a drowsy summer day.

But gather all thy powers, And wreak them on the verse that thou dost weave, And in thy lonely hours, At silent morning or at wakeful eve, While the warm current tingles through thy veins, Set forth the burning words in fluent strains.

No smooth array of phrase, Artfully sought and ordered though it be, Which the cold rhymer lays Upon his page with languid industry, Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed, Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read.

The secret wouldst thou know To touch the heart or fire the blood at will?

Let thine own eyes o'erflow; Let thy lips quiver with the pa.s.sionate thrill; Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past, And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast.

Then, should thy verse appear Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought, Touch the crude line with fear, Save in the moment of impa.s.sioned thought; Then summon back the original glow, and mend The strain with rapture that with fire was penned.

Yet let no empty gust Of pa.s.sion find an utterance in thy lay, A blast that whirls the dust Along the howling street and dies away; But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep, Like currents journeying through the windless deep.

Seek'st thou, in living lays, To limn the beauty of the earth and sky?

Before thine inner gaze Let all that beauty in clear vision lie; Look on it with exceeding love, and write The words inspired by wonder and delight.

Of tempests wouldst thou sing, Or tell of battles--make thyself a part Of the great tumult; cling To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart; Scale, with the a.s.saulting host, the rampart's height, And strike and struggle in the thickest fight.

So shalt thou frame a lay That haply may endure from age to age, And they who read shall say: "What witchery hangs upon this poet's page!

What art is his the written spells to find That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!"

THE PATH.

The path we planned beneath October's sky, Along the hillside, through the woodland shade, Is finished; thanks to thee, whose kindly eye Has watched me, as I plied the busy spade; Else had I wearied, ere this path of ours Had pierced the woodland to its inner bowers.

Yet, 'twas a pleasant toil to trace and beat, Among the glowing trees, this winding way, While the sweet autumn sunshine, doubly sweet, Flushed with the ruddy foliage, round us lay, As if some gorgeous cloud of morning stood, In glory, mid the arches of the wood.

A path! what beauty does a path bestow Even on the dreariest wild! its savage nooks Seem homelike where accustomed footsteps go, And the grim rock puts on familiar looks.