Song Of Marion’s Men by William Cullen Bryant

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 walks of thorny vines,
…Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
…Within the dark morass.

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 his 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 hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
…For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band,
…With kindest 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 shore.

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Dante by William Cullen Bryant

Who, mid the grasses of the field
…That spring beneath our careless feet,
First found the shining stems that yield
…The grains of life-sustaining wheat: 

Who first, upon the furrowed land,
…Strewed the bright grains to sprout, and grow,
And ripen for the reaper’s hand –
…We know not, and we cannot know. 

But well we know the hand that brought
…And scattered, far as sight can reach,
The seeds of free and living thought
…On the broad field of modern speech. 

Mid the white hills that round us lie,
…We cherish that Great Sower’s fame,
And, as we pile the sheaves on high,
…With awe we utter Dante’s name. 

Six centuries, since the poet’s birth,
…Have come and flitted o’er our sphere:
The richest harvest reaped on earth
…Crowns the last century’s closing year.

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I Cannot Forget by William Cullen Bryant

I cannot forget with what fervid devotion
…I worshipped the visions of verse and of fame:
Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean,
…To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame. 

And deep were my musings in life’s early blossom,
…‘Mid the twilight of mountain groves wandering long;
How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full
……bosom,
…When o’er me descended the spirit of song. 

‘Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened
…To the rush of the pebble-paved river between,
Where the king-fisher screamed and gray precipice glistened,
…All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene; 

Till I felt the dark power, o’er my reveries stealing,
…From his throne in the depth of that stern solitude,
And he breathed through my lips, in that tempest of feeling,
…Strains warm with his spirit, though artless and rude.

Bright visions! I mixed with the world and ye faded;
…No longer your pure rural worshipper now;
In the haunts your continual presence pervaded,
…Ye shrink from the signet of care on my brow.

In the old mossy groves on the breast of the mountain,
…In deep lonely glens where the waters complain,
By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain,
…I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain.

Oh, leave not forlorn and forever forsaken,
…Your pupil and victim, to life and its tears!
But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken
…The glories ye showed to his earlier years.

 

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To An American Painter Departing For Europe by William Cullen Bryant

Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies:
…Yet, Cole! thy heart shall bear to Europe’s strand
…A living image of thy native land,
Such as on thy own glorious canvass lies
Lone lakes – savannahs where the bison roves –
…Rocks rich with summer garland – solemn streams –
…Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams –
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves,
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest – fair,
…But different – every where the trace of men,
…Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air.
…Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,
…But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.

 

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The Yellow Violet by William Cullen Bryant

The Yellow Violet

When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird’s warble know,
The yellow violet’s modest bell
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,
Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them – but I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I’ll not o’er look the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.

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The Death Of Lincoln by William Cullen Bryant

The Death Of Lincoln

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who, in the fear of God, didst bear
The sword of power, a nation’s trust!

In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
Amid the awe that hushes all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bound are free:
We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose proudest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life: its bloody close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light,
Among the noble host of those
Who perished in the cause of Right.

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To A Waterfowl by William Cullen Bryant

              To A Waterfowl

   Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of the day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
   Thy solitary way? 

   Vainly the fowler’s eye
Might mark the distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
   Thy figure floats along. 

   Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
   On the chafed ocean-side? 

   There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast –
The desert and illimitable air –
   Lone wandering, but not lost. 

   All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
   Though the dark night is near.

   And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
   Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest. 

   Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou has given,
   And shall not soon depart. 

   He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
   Will lead my steps aright.

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The Green Mountain Boys by William Cullen Bryant

Flag of the Green Mountain Boys and the Vermont Republic (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

 

       The Green Mountain Boys

Here we halt our march, and pitch our tent,
On the rugged forest ground,
And light our fire with the branches rent,
By winds from the beeches round,
Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,
But a wilder is at hand,
With hail of iron and rain of blood,
To sweep and scath the land.

How the dark waste rings with the voices shrill,
That startle the sleeping bird,
Tomorrow eve must the voice be still,
And the step must fall unheard.
The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,
In Ticonderoga’s towers,
And ere the sun rise twice again,
The towers and the lake are ours.

Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides,
Where the fireflies light the brake;
A ruddier juice the Briton hides,
In his fortress by the lake.
Build high the fire, till the panther leap
From his lofty perch in fright,
And we’ll strengthen our weary arms with sleep,
For the deeds of tomorrow night.

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Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant

Graveyard. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

               Thanatopsis

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.  When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart; - 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around – 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air – 
Comes a still voice: - 
                       Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image.  Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shall thou go 
To mix forever with the elements, 
To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon.  The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
   Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent.  Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world – with kings, 
The powerful of the earth – the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulcher.  The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, - the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The venerable woods – rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, - 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man.  The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death 
Through the still lapse of ages.  All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. – Take the wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
Save his own dashings – yet the dead are there: 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep – the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure?  All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny.  The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee.  As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men – 
The youth in life’s fresh spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man – 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
   So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

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To The Fringed Gentian by William Cullen Bryant

Image via Wikipedia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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—     —

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven’s own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night,

Thou comest not when violets lean
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com’st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue – blue – as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

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Photo by Tristan Loper, Original uploader was Athene cunicularia at en.wikipedia

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