Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 47

How laughed the fields, and how, before our door, Danced the bright waters!--from his perch on high The hang-bird sang his ditty o'er and o'er, And the song-sparrow from the shrubberies nigh.

Yet was the home where thou wert lying dead Mournfully still, save when, at times, was heard, From room to room, some softly-moving tread, Or murmur of some softly-uttered word.

Feared they to break thy slumber? As we threw A look on that bright bay and glorious sh.o.r.e, Our hearts were wrung with anguish, for we knew Those sleeping eyes would look on them no more.

Autumn is here; we cull his lingering flowers And bring them to the spot where thou art laid; The late-born offspring of his balmier hours, Spared by the frost, upon thy grave to fade.

The sweet calm suns.h.i.+ne of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its gra.s.sy mould The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.

And gorgeous as the morn, a tall array Of woodland shelters the smooth fields around; And guarded by its headlands, far away Sail-spotted, blue and lake-like, sleeps the sound.

I gaze in sadness; it delights me not To look on beauty which thou canst not see; And, wert thou by my side, the dreariest spot Were, oh, how far more beautiful to me!

In what fair region dost thou now abide?

Hath G.o.d, in the transparent deeps of s.p.a.ce, Through which the planets in their journey glide, Prepared, for souls like thine, a dwelling-place?

Fields of unwithering bloom, to mortal eye Invisible, though mortal eye were near, Musical groves, and bright streams murmuring by, Heard only by the spiritual ear?

Nay, let us deem that thou dost not withdraw From the dear places where thy lot was cast, And where thy heart, in love's most holy law, Was schooled by all the memories of the past.

Here on this earth, where once, among mankind, Walked G.o.d's beloved Son, thine eyes may see Beauty to which our dimmer sense is blind And glory that may make it heaven to thee.

May we not think that near us thou dost stand With loving ministrations, for we know Thy heart was never happy when thy hand Was forced its tasks of mercy to forego!

Mayst thou not prompt, with every coming day, The generous aim and act, and gently win Our restless, wandering thoughts to turn away From every treacherous path that ends in sin!

THE ORDER OF NATURE.

FROM BOETHIUS DE CONSOLATIONE.

Thou who wouldst read, with an undarkened eye, The laws by which the Thunderer bears sway, Look at the stars that keep, in yonder sky, Unbroken peace from Nature's earliest day.

The great sun, as he guides his fiery car, Strikes not the cold moon in his rapid sweep; The Bear, that sees star setting after star In the blue brine, descends not to the deep.

The star of eve still leads the hour of dews; Duly the day-star ushers in the light; With kindly alternations Love renews The eternal courses bringing day and night.

Love drives away the brawler War, and keeps The realm and host of stars beyond his reach; In one long calm the general concord steeps The elements, and tempers each to each.

The moist gives place benignly to the dry; Heat ratifies a faithful league with cold; The nimble flame springs upward to the sky; Down sinks by its own weight the sluggish mould.

Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime; Her harvests still the ripening Summer yields; Fruit-laden Autumn follows in his time, And rainy Winter waters still the fields.

The elemental harmony brings forth And rears all life, and, when life's term is o'er, It sweeps the breathing myriads from the earth, And whelms and hides them to be seen no more:

While the Great Founder, he who gave these laws, Holds the firm reins and sits amid his skies Monarch and Master, Origin and Cause, And Arbiter supremely just and wise.

He guides the force he gave; his hand restrains And curbs it to the circle it must trace: Else the fair fabric which his power sustains Would fall to fragments in the void of s.p.a.ce.

Love binds the parts together, gladly still They court the kind restraint nor would be free; Unless Love held them subject to the Will That gave them being, they would cease to be.

TREE-BURIAL.

Near our southwestern border, when a child Dies in the cabin of an Indian wife, She makes its funeral-couch of delicate furs, Blankets and bark, and binds it to the bough Of some broad branching tree with leathern thongs And sinews of the deer. A mother once Wrought at this tender task, and murmured thus: "Child of my love, I do not lay thee down Among the chilly clods where never comes The pleasant suns.h.i.+ne. There the greedy wolf Might break into thy grave and tear thee thence, And I should sorrow all my life. I make Thy burial-place here, where the light of day s.h.i.+nes round thee, and the airs that play among The boughs shall rock thee. Here the morning sun, Which woke thee once from sleep to smile on me, Shall beam upon thy bed, and sweetly here Shall lie the red light of the evening clouds Which called thee once to slumber. Here the stars Shall look upon thee--the bright stars of heaven Which thou didst wonder at. Here too the birds, Whose music thou didst love, shall sing to thee, And near thee build their nests and rear their young With none to scare them. Here the woodland flowers, Whose opening in the spring-time thou didst greet With shouts of joy, and which so well became Thy pretty hands when thou didst gather them, Shall spot the ground below thy little bed.

"Yet haply thou hast fairer flowers than these, Which, in the land of souls, thy spirit plucks In fields that wither not, amid the throng Of joyous children, like thyself, who went Before thee to that brighter world and sport Eternally beneath its cloudless skies.

Sport with them, dear, dear child, until I come To dwell with thee, and thou, beholding me, From far, shalt run and leap into my arms, And I shall clasp thee as I clasped thee here While living, oh most beautiful and sweet Of children, now more pa.s.sing beautiful, If that can be, with eyes like summer stars-- A light that death can never quench again.

"And now, oh wind, that here among the leaves Dost softly rustle, breathe thou ever thus Gently, and put not forth thy strength to tear The branches and let fall their precious load, A prey to foxes. Thou, too, ancient sun, Beneath whose eye the seasons come and go, And generations rise and pa.s.s away, While thou dost never change--oh, call not up, With thy strong heats, the dark, grim thunder-cloud, To smite this tree with bolts of fire, and rend Its trunk and strew the earth with splintered boughs.

Ye rains, fall softly on the couch that holds My darling. There the panther's spotted hide Shall turn aside the shower; and be it long, Long after thou and I have met again, Ere summer wind or winter rain shall waste This couch and all that now remains of thee, To me thy mother. Meantime, while I live, With each returning sunrise I shall seem To see thy waking smile, and I shall weep; And when the sun is setting I shall think How, as I watched thee, o'er thy sleepy eyes Drooped the smooth lids, and laid on the round cheek Their lashes, and my tears will flow again; And often, at those moments, I shall seem To hear again the sweetly prattled name Which thou didst call me by, and it will haunt My home till I depart to be with thee."

A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARES.

The air is dark with cloud on cloud, And, through the leaden-colored ma.s.s, With thunder-crashes quick and loud, A thousand shafts of lightning pa.s.s.

And to and fro they glance and go, Or, darting downward, smite the ground.

What phantom arms are those that throw The shower of fiery arrows round?

A louder cras.h.!.+ a mighty oak Is smitten from that stormy sky.

Its stem is shattered by the stroke; Around its root the branches lie.

Fresh breathes the wind; the storm is o'er; The piles of mist are swept away; And from the open sky, once more, Streams gloriously the golden day.

A dusky hunter of the wild Is pa.s.sing near, and stops to see The wreck of splintered branches piled About the roots of that huge tree.

Lo, quaintly shaped and fairly strung, Wrought by what hand he cannot know, On that drenched pile of boughs, among The splinters, lies a polished bow.

He lifts it up; the drops that hang On the smooth surface glide away: He tries the string, no sharper tw.a.n.g Was ever heard on battle-day.

Homeward Onetho bears the prize: Who meets him as he turns to go?

An aged chief, with quick, keen eyes, And bending frame, and locks of snow.

"See, what I bring, my father, see This goodly bow which I have found Beneath a thunder-riven tree, Dropped with the lightning to the ground."

"Beware, my son; it is not well"-- The white-haired chieftain makes reply-- "That we who in the forest dwell Should wield the weapons of the sky.

"Lay back that weapon in its place; Let those who bore it bear it still, Lest thou displease the ghostly race That float in mist from hill to hill."

"My father, I will only try How well it sends a shaft, and then, Be sure, this goodly bow shall lie Among the splintered boughs again."