Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 19

Thy golden suns.h.i.+ne comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies And lights their inner homes; For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its sh.o.r.es.

Thy Spirit is around, Quickening the restless ma.s.s that sweeps along; And this eternal sound-- Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng-- Like the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee.

And when the hour of rest Comes, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hus.h.i.+ng its billowy breast-- The quiet of that moment too is thine; It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

THE PRAIRIES.

These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name-- The Prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch, In airy undulations, far away, As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, And motionless forever.--Motionless?-- No--they are all unchained again. The clouds Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!

Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, And pa.s.s the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not--ye have played Among the palms of Mexico and vines Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks That from the fountains of Sonora glide Into the calm Pacific--have ye fanned A n.o.bler or a lovelier scene than this?

Man hath no power in all this glorious work: The hand that built the firmament hath heaved And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes With herbage, planted them with island groves, And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor For this magnificent temple of the sky-- With flowers whose glory and whose mult.i.tude Rival the constellations! The great heavens Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,-- A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, Than that which bends above our eastern hills.

As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, Among the high rank gra.s.s that sweeps his sides The hollow beating of his footstep seems A sacrilegious sound. I think of those Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here-- The dead of other days?--and did the dust Of these fair solitudes once stir with life And burn with pa.s.sion? Let the mighty mounds That overlook the rivers, or that rise In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, Answer. A race, that long has pa.s.sed away, Built them;--a disciplined and populous race Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed, When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.

All day this desert murmured with their toils, Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed In a forgotten language, and old tunes, From instruments of unremembered form, Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came-- The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.

The solitude of centuries untold Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone; All--save the piles of earth that hold their bones, The platforms where they wors.h.i.+pped unknown G.o.ds, The barriers which they builded from the soil To keep the foe at bay--till o'er the walls The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres, And sat unscared and silent at their feast.

Haply some solitary fugitive, Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense Of desolation and of fear became Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.

Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose A bride among their maidens, and at length Seemed to forget--yet ne'er forgot--the wife Of his first love, and her sweet little ones, Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.

Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise Races of living things, glorious in strength, And perish, as the quickening breath of G.o.d Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too, Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, And nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought A wilder hunting-ground. The beaver builds No longer by these streams, but far away, On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back The white man's face--among Missouri's springs, And pools whose issues swell the Oregon-- He rears his little Venice. In these plains The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake The earth with thundering steps--yet here I meet His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

Still this great solitude is quick with life.

Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, A more adventurous colonist than man, With whom he came across the eastern deep, Fills the savannas with his murmurings, And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, Within the hollow oak. I listen long To his domestic hum, and think I hear The sound of that advancing mult.i.tude Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn Of Sabbath wors.h.i.+ppers. The low of herds Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain Over the dark brown furrows. All at once A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, And I am in the wilderness alone.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

Our band is few but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told.

Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea.

We know its walls of th.o.r.n.y vines, Its glades of reedy gra.s.s, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark mora.s.s.

Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near!

On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil: We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds.

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts the tossing mane.

A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with h.o.a.ry hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers.

And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring.

For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, Forever, from our sh.o.r.e.

THE ARCTIC LOVER.

Gone is the long, long winter night; Look, my beloved one!

How glorious, through his depths of light, Rolls the majestic sun!

The willows, waked from winter's death, Give out a fragrance like thy breath-- The summer is begun!

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day: Hark to that mighty cras.h.!.+

The loosened ice-ridge breaks away-- The smitten waters flash; Seaward the glittering mountain rides, While, down its green translucent sides, The foamy torrents dash.

See, love, my boat is moored for thee By ocean's weedy floor-- The petrel does not skim the sea More swiftly than my oar.

We'll go where, on the rocky isles, Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles Beside the pebbly sh.o.r.e.

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, With wind-flowers frail and fair, While I, upon his isle of snow, Seek and defy the bear.

Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, This arm his savage strength shall tame, And drag him from his lair.

When crimson sky and flamy cloud Bespeak the summer o'er, And the dead valleys wear a shroud Of snows that melt no more, I'll build of ice thy winter home, With glistening walls and gla.s.sy dome, And spread with skins the floor.

The white fox by thy couch shall play; And, from the frozen skies, The meteors of a mimic day Shall flash upon thine eyes.

And I--for such thy vow--meanwhile Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile.

Till that long midnight flies.

THE JOURNEY OF LIFE.

Beneath the waning moon I walk at night, And muse on human life--for all around Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight, And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground, And broken gleams of brightness, here and there, Glance through, and leave unwarmed the death-like air.

The trampled earth returns a sound of fear-- A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs; And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appear Far off, and die like hope amid the glooms.

A mournful wind across the landscape flies, And the wide atmosphere is full of sighs.

And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on, Watching the stars that roll the hours away, Till the faint light that guides me now is gone, And, like another life, the glorious day Shall open o'er me from the empyreal height, With warmth, and certainty, and boundless light.

TRANSLATIONS.

VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES.