Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 48

So to the hunting-ground he hies, To chase till eve the forest-game, And not a single arrow flies, From that good bow, with erring aim.

And then he deems that they, who swim In trains of cloud the middle air, Perchance had kindly thoughts of him And dropped the bow for him to bear.

He bears it from that day, and soon Becomes the mark of every eye, And wins renown with every moon That fills its circle in the sky.

None strike so surely in the chase; None bring such trophies from the fight; And, at the council-fire, his place Is with the wise and men of might.

And far across the land is spread, Among the hunter tribes, his fame; Men name the bowyer-chief with dread Whose arrows never miss their aim.

See next his broad-roofed cabin rise On a smooth river's pleasant side, And she who has the brightest eyes Of all the tribe becomes his bride.

A year has pa.s.sed; the forest sleeps In early autumn's sultry glow; Onetho, on the mountain-steeps, Is hunting with that trusty bow.

But they, who by the river dwell, See the dim vapors thickening o'er Long mountain-range and severing dell, And hear the thunder's sullen roar.

Still darker grows the spreading cloud From which the booming thunders sound, And stoops and hangs a shadowy shroud Above Onetho's hunting-ground.

Then they who, from the river-vale, Are gazing on the distant storm, See in the mists that ride the gale Dim shadows of the human form--

Tall warriors, plumed, with streaming hair And lifted arms that bear the bow, And send athwart the murky air The arrowy lightnings to and fro.

Loud is the tumult of an hour-- Crash of torn boughs and howl of blast, And thunder-peal and pelting shower, And then the storm is overpast.

Where is Onetho? what delays His coming? why should he remain Among the plashy woodland ways, Swoln brooks and boughs that drip with rain?

He comes not, and the younger men Go forth to search the forest round.

They track him to a mountain-glen, And find him lifeless on the ground.

The goodly bow that was his pride Is gone, but there the arrows lie; And now they know the death he died, Slain by the lightnings of the sky.

They bear him thence in awe and fear Back to the vale with stealthy tread; There silently, from far and near, The warriors gather round the dead.

But in their homes the women bide; Unseen they sit and weep apart, And, in her bower, Onetho's bride Is sobbing with a broken heart.

They lay in earth their bowyer-chief, And at his side their hands bestow His dreaded battle-axe and sheaf Of arrows, but without a bow.

"Too soon he died; it is not well"-- The old men murmured, standing nigh-- "That we, who in the forest dwell, Should wield the weapons of the sky."

A LIFETIME.

I sit in the early twilight, And, through the gathering shade, I look on the fields around me Where yet a child I played.

And I peer into the shadows, Till they seem to pa.s.s away, And the fields and their tiny brooklet Lie clear in the light of day.

A delicate child and slender, With lock of light-brown hair, From knoll to knoll is leaping In the breezy summer air.

He stoops to gather blossoms Where the running waters shine; And I look on him with wonder, His eyes are so like mine.

I look till the fields and brooklet Swim like a vision by, And a room in a lowly dwelling Lies clear before my eye.

There stand, in the clean-swept fireplace, Fresh boughs from the wood in bloom, And the birch-tree's fragrant branches Perfume the humble room.

And there the child is standing By a stately lady's knee, And reading of ancient peoples And realms beyond the sea:

Of the cruel King of Egypt Who made G.o.d's people slaves, And perished, with all his army, Drowned in the Red Sea waves;

Of Deborah who mustered Her brethren long oppressed, And routed the heathen army, And gave her people rest;

And the sadder, gentler story How Christ, the crucified, With a prayer for those who slew him, Forgave them as he died.

I look again, and there rises A forest wide and wild, And in it the boy is wandering, No longer a little child.

He murmurs his own rude verses As he roams the woods alone; And again I gaze with wonder, His eyes are so like my own.

I see him next in his chamber, Where he sits him down to write The rhymes he framed in his ramble, And he cons them with delight.

A kindly figure enters, A man of middle age, And points to a line just written, And 'tis blotted from the page.

And next, in a hall of justice, Scarce grown to manly years, Mid the h.o.a.ry-headed wranglers The slender youth appears.

With a beating heart he rises, And with a burning cheek, And the judges kindly listen To hear the young man speak.

Another change, and I see him Approach his dwelling-place, Where a fair-haired woman meets him, With a smile on her young face--

A smile that spreads a sunshine On lip and cheek and brow; So sweet a smile there is not In all the wide earth now.

She leads by the hand their first-born, A fair-haired little one, And their eyes as they meet him sparkle Like brooks in the morning sun.

Another change, and I see him Where the city's ceaseless coil Sends up a mighty murmur From a thousand modes of toil.

And there, mid the clash of presses, He plies the rapid pen In the battles of opinion, That divide the sons of men.

I look, and the clashing presses And the town are seen no more, But there is the poet wandering A strange and foreign sh.o.r.e.

He has crossed the mighty ocean To realms that lie afar, In the region of ancient story, Beneath the morning star.

And now he stands in wonder On an icy Alpine height; Now pitches his tent in the desert Where the jackal yells at night;

Now, far on the North Sea islands, Sees day on the midnight sky, Now gathers the fair strange fruitage Where the isles of the Southland lie.

I see him again at his dwelling, Where, over the little lake, The rose-trees droop in their beauty To meet the image they make.

Though years have whitened his temples, His eyes have the first look still, Save a shade of settled sadness, A forecast of coming ill.

For in that pleasant dwelling, On the rack of ceaseless pain, Lies she who smiled so sweetly, And prays for ease in vain.