Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 44

The tangled swamp, through which a pathway strays, Becomes a garden with strange flowers and sprays.

See from the weedy earth a rivulet break And purl along the untrodden wilderness; There the shy cuckoo comes his thirst to slake, There the shrill jay alights his plumes to dress; And there the stealthy fox, when morn is gray, Laps the clear stream and lightly moves away.

But let a path approach that fountain's brink, And n.o.bler forms of life, behold! are there: Boys kneeling with protruded lips to drink, And slender maids that homeward slowly bear The br.i.m.m.i.n.g pail, and busy dames that lay Their webs to whiten in the summer ray.

Then know we that for herd and flock are poured Those pleasant streams that o'er the pebbles slip; Those pure sweet waters sparkle on the board; Those fresh cool waters wet the sick man's lip; Those clear bright waters from the font are shed, In dews of baptism, on the infant's head.

What different steps the rural footway trace!

The laborer afield at early day; The schoolboy sauntering with uneven pace; The Sunday worshipper in fresh array; And mourner in the weeds of sorrow drest; And, smiling to himself, the wedding guest.

There he who cons a speech and he who hums His yet unfinished verses, musing walk.

There, with her little brood, the matron comes, To break the spring flower from its juicy stalk; And lovers, loitering, wonder that the moon Has risen upon their pleasant stroll so soon.

Bewildered in vast woods, the traveller feels His heavy heart grow lighter, if he meet The traces of a path, and straight he kneels, And kisses the dear print of human feet, And thanks his G.o.d, and journeys without fear, For now he knows the abodes of men are near.

Pursue the slenderest path across a lawn: Lo! on the broad highway it issues forth, And, blended with the greater track, goes on, Over the surface of the mighty earth, Climbs hills and crosses vales, and stretches far, Through silent forests, toward the evening star--

And enters cities murmuring with the feet Of mult.i.tudes, and wanders forth again, And joins the climes of frost to climes of heat, Binds East to West, and marries main to main, Nor stays till at the long-resounding sh.o.r.e Of the great deep, where paths are known no more.

Oh, mighty instinct, that dost thus unite Earth's neighborhoods and tribes with friendly bands, What guilt is theirs who, in their greed or spite, Undo thy holy work with violent hands, And post their squadrons, nursed in war's grim trade, To bar the ways for mutual succor made!

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

I hear, from many a little throat, A warble interrupted long; I hear the robin's flute-like note, The bluebird's slenderer song.

Brown meadows and the russet hill, Not yet the haunt of grazing herds, And thickets by the glimmering rill, Are all alive with birds.

Oh choir of spring, why come so soon?

On leafless grove and herbless lawn Warm lie the yellow beams of moon; Yet winter is not gone.

For frost shall sheet the pools again; Again the bl.u.s.tering East shall blow-- Whirl a white tempest through the glen, And load the pines with snow.

Yet, haply, from the region where, Waked by an earlier spring than here, The blossomed wild-plum scents the air, Ye come in haste and fear.

For there is heard the bugle-blast, The booming gun, the jarring drum, And on their chargers, spurring fast, Armed warriors go and come.

There mighty hosts have pitched the camp In valleys that were yours till then, And Earth has shuddered to the tramp Of half a million men!

In groves where once ye used to sing, In orchards where ye had your birth, A thousand glittering axes swing To smite the trees to earth.

Ye love the fields by ploughmen trod; But there, when sprouts the beechen spray, The soldier only breaks the sod To hide the slain away.

Stay, then, beneath our ruder sky; Heed not the storm-clouds rising black, Nor yelling winds that with them fly; Nor let them fright you back,--

Back to the stifling battle-cloud, To burning towns that blot the day, And trains of mounting dust that shroud The armies on their way.

Stay, for a tint of green shall creep Soon o'er the orchard's gra.s.sy floor, And from its bed the crocus peep Beside the housewife's door.

Here build, and dread no harsher sound, To scare you from the sheltering tree, Than winds that stir the branches round, And murmur of the bee.

And we will pray that, ere again The flowers of autumn bloom and die, Our generals and their strong-armed men May lay their weapons by.

Then may ye warble, unafraid, Where hands, that wear the fetter now, Free as your wings shall ply the spade, And guide the peaceful plough.

Then, as our conquering hosts return, What shouts of jubilee shall break From placid vale and mountain stern, And sh.o.r.e of mighty lake!

And midland plain and ocean-strand Shall thunder: "Glory to the brave, Peace to the torn and bleeding land, And freedom to the slave!"

_March_, 1864.

"HE HATH PUT ALL THINGS UNDER HIS FEET."

O North, with all thy vales of green!

O South, with all thy palms!

From peopled towns and fields between Uplift the voice of psalms; Raise, ancient East, the anthem high, And let the youthful West reply.

Lo! in the clouds of heaven appears G.o.d's well-beloved Son; He brings a train of brighter years: His kingdom is begun.

He comes, a guilty world to bless With mercy, truth, and righteousness.

Oh, Father! haste the promised hour When, at His feet, shall lie All rule, authority, and power, Beneath the ample sky; When He shall reign from pole to pole, The lord of every human soul;

When all shall heed the words He said Amid their daily cares, And, by the loving life He led, Shall seek to pattern theirs; And He, who conquered Death, shall win The n.o.bler conquest over Sin.

MY AUTUMN WALK.

On woodlands ruddy with autumn The amber sunshine lies; I look on the beauty round me, And tears come into my eyes.

For the wind that sweeps the meadows Blows out of the far Southwest, Where our gallant men are fighting, And the gallant dead are at rest.

The golden-rod is leaning, And the purple aster waves In a breeze from the land of battles, A breath from the land of graves.

Full fast the leaves are dropping Before that wandering breath; As fast, on the field of battle, Our brethren fall in death.

Beautiful over my pathway The forest spoils are shed; They are spotting the gra.s.sy hillocks With purple and gold and red.

Beautiful is the death-sleep Of those who bravely fight In their country's holy quarrel, And perish for the Right.

But who shall comfort the living, The light of whose homes is gone: The bride that, early widowed, Lives broken-hearted on;