Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 40

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power.

I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day, And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, Moves mournfully away from amid the young and fair.

O glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

O crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!

O breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness, and flies we know not where!

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn; But still the sun s.h.i.+nes round me: the evening bird sings on, And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.

O frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So come from every region, so enter, side by side, The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride.

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray, And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart; And, in the suns.h.i.+ne streaming on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

NOT YET.

Oh country, marvel of the earth!

Oh realm to sudden greatness grown!

The age that gloried in thy birth, Shall it behold thee overthrown?

Shall traitors lay that greatness low?

No, land of Hope and Blessing, No!

And we, who wear thy glorious name, Shall we, like cravens, stand apart, When those whom thou hast trusted aim The death-blow at thy generous heart?

Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo!

Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land, The power that rules from sea to sea, Bled they in vain, or vainly planned To leave their country great and free?

Their sleeping ashes, from below, Send up the thrilling murmur, No!

Knit they the gentle ties which long These sister States were proud to wear, And forged the kindly links so strong For idle hands in sport to tear?

For scornful hands aside to throw?

No, by our fathers' memory, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways, Our wind-tossed woods on mountain-crest, The hoa.r.s.e Atlantic, with its bays, The calm, broad Ocean of the West, And Mississippi's torrent-flow, And loud Niagara, answer, No!

Not yet the hour is nigh when they Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit, Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say, "Proud country, welcome to the pit!

So soon art thou, like us, brought low!"

No, sullen group of shadows, No!

For now, behold, the arm that gave The victory in our fathers' day, Strong, as of old, to guard and save-- That mighty arm which none can stay-- On clouds above and fields below, Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!

_July_, 1861.

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.

Lay down the axe; fling by the spade; Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.

Our country calls; away! away!

To where the blood-stream blots the green.

Strike to defend the gentlest sway That Time in all his course has seen.

See, from a thousand coverts--see, Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back.

Ho! st.u.r.dy as the oaks ye cleave, And moved as soon to fear and flight, Men of the glade and forest! leave Your woodcraft for the field of fight.

The arms that wield the axe must pour An iron tempest on the foe; His serried ranks shall reel before The arm that lays the panther low.

And ye, who breast the mountain-storm By gra.s.sy steep or highland lake, Come, for the land ye love, to form A bulwark that no foe can break.

Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock The whirlwind, stand in her defence; The blast as soon shall move the rock As rus.h.i.+ng squadrons bear ye thence.

And ye, whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land, As mighty in your march as they; As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and bourne With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn.

And ye, who throng, beside the deep, Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap On his long-murmuring marge of sand-- Come like that deep, when, o'er his brim, He rises, all his floods to pour, And flings the proudest barks that swim, A helpless wreck, against the sh.o.r.e!

Few, few were they whose swords of old Won the fair land in which we dwell; But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well.

Strike, for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And glorious must their triumph be!

_September_, 1861.

THE CONSTELLATIONS.

O Constellations of the early night, That sparkled brighter as the twilight died, And made the darkness glorious! I have seen Your rays grow dim upon the horizon's edge, And sink behind the mountains. I have seen The great Orion, with his jewelled belt, That large-limbed warrior of the skies, go down Into the gloom. Beside him sank a crowd Of s.h.i.+ning ones. I look in vain to find The group of sister-stars, which mothers love To show their wondering babes, the gentle Seven.

Along the desert s.p.a.ce mine eyes in vain Seek the resplendent cressets which the Twins Uplifted in their ever-youthful hands.

The streaming tresses of the Egyptian Queen Spangle the heavens no more. The Virgin trails No more her glittering garments through the blue.

Gone! all are gone! and the forsaken Night, With all her winds, in all her dreary wastes, Sighs that they s.h.i.+ne upon her face no more Now only here and there a little star Looks forth alone. Ah me! I know them not, Those dim successors of the numberless host That filled the heavenly fields, and flung to earth Their quivering fires. And now the middle watch Betwixt the eve and morn is past, and still The darkness gains upon the sky, and still It closes round my way. Shall, then, the Night Grow starless in her later hours? Have these No train of flaming watchers, that shall mark Their coming and farewell? O Sons of Light!

Have ye then left me ere the dawn of day To grope along my journey sad and faint?

Thus I complained, and from the darkness round A voice replied--was it indeed a voice, Or seeming accents of a waking dream Heard by the inner ear? But thus it said: O Traveller of the Night! thine eyes are dim With watching; and the mists, that chill the vale Down which thy feet are pa.s.sing, hide from view The ever-burning stars. It is thy sight That is so dark, and not the heavens. Thine eyes, Were they but clear, would see a fiery host Above thee; Hercules, with flas.h.i.+ng mace, The Lyre with silver chords, the Swan uppoised On gleaming wings, the Dolphin gliding on With glistening scales, and that poetic steed, With beamy mane, whose hoof struck out from earth The fount of Hippocrene, and many more, Fair cl.u.s.tered splendors, with whose rays the Night Shall close her march in glory, ere she yield, To the young Day, the great earth steeped in dew.

So spake the monitor, and I perceived How vain were my repinings, and my thought Went backward to the vanished years and all The good and great who came and pa.s.sed with them, And knew that ever would the years to come Bring with them, in their course, the good and great, Lights of the world, though, to my clouded sight, Their rays might seem but dim, or reach me not.

THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861.