Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 14

Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away.

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the suns.h.i.+ne of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the gla.s.s, Pa.s.s silently from men, as thou dost pa.s.s.

THE DAMSEL OF PERU.

Where olive-leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru.

Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair; And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook, As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook.

'Tis a song of love and valor, in the n.o.ble Spanish tongue, That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung; When, from their mountain-holds, on the Moorish rout below, Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe.

Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, And sent him to the war the day she should have been his bride, And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight.

Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north.

Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale; For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat.

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone, But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,-- A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave.

And see, along that mountain-slope, a fiery horseman ride; Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side.

His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rain, There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon the mane.

He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill!

G.o.d s.h.i.+eld the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill!

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek--but not of fear.

For tender accents follow, and tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak; "I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee."

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.

Chained in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering mult.i.tude That shrunk to hear his name-- All stern of look and strong of limb, His dark eye on the ground:-- And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well that chief had fought, He was a captive now, Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, Was written on his brow.

The scars his dark broad bosom wore Showed warrior true and brave; A prince among his tribe before, He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake: "My brother is a king; Undo this necklace from my neck, And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns, And I will fill thy hands With store of ivory from the plains, And gold-dust from the sands."

"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold Will I unbind thy chain; That b.l.o.o.d.y hand shall never hold The battle-spear again.

A price that nation never gave Shall yet be paid for thee; For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, In lands beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade To shred his locks away; And one by one, each heavy braid Before the victor lay.

Thick were the platted locks, and long, And closely hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crisped hair.

"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold Long kept for sorest need; Take it--thou askest sums untold-- And say that I am freed.

Take it--my wife, the long, long day, Weeps by the cocoa-tree, And my young children leave their play, And ask in vain for me."

"I take thy gold, but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong, And ween that by the cocoa-shade Thy wife will wait thee long."

Strong was the agony that shook The captive's frame to hear, And the proud meaning of his look Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken--crazed his brain: At once his eye grew wild; He struggled fiercely with his chain, Whispered, and wept, and smiled; Yet wore not long those fatal bands, And once, at shut of day, They drew him forth upon the sands, The foul hyena's prey.

SPRING IN TOWN.

The country ever has a lagging Spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses; showers and suns.h.i.+ne bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth; To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.

Within the city's bounds the time of flowers Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, Such as full often, for a few bright hours, Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, s.h.i.+ne on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom-- And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom.

For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, That overhung with blossoms, through its glen, Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon, And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours.

For here are eyes that shame the violet, Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, And foreheads, white, as when in cl.u.s.ters set, The anemones by forest-mountains rise; And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.

And thick about those lovely temples lie Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled, Thrice happy man! whose trade it is to buy, And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world; Who curls of every glossy color keepest, And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest.

And well thou mayst--for Italy's brown maids Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed, And Gascon la.s.ses, from their jetty braids, Crop half, to buy a ribbon for the rest; But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.

Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve, To see her locks of an unlovely hue, Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give Such piles of curls as Nature never knew.

Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright.

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by.

The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert s.p.a.ce, Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.

No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,-- Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn,-- A step that speaks the spirit of the place, Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away To Sing Sing and the sh.o.r.es of Tappan Bay.

Ye that dash by in chariots! who will care For steeds or footmen now? ye cannot show Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, And last edition of the shape! Ah, no, These sights are for the earth and open sky, And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure s.p.a.ce And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a t.i.tter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.