William Cullen Bryant

I had a dream, a strange, wild dream, Said a dear voice at early light; And even yet its shadows seem

The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, ere he framed

The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy breath,

Decolor, obscuris, vilis, non ille repexam Cesariem regum, non candida virginis ornat Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula morsu.

There sits a lovely maiden, The ocean murmuring nigh; She throws the hook, and watches;

"Oh father, let us hence, for hark, A fearful murmur shakes the air. The clouds are coming swift and dark:

Cool shades and dews are round my way, And silence of the early day; Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed,

Come take our boy, and we will go Before our cabin door; The winds shall bring us, as they blow,

The quiet August noon has come, A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb,

When insect wings are glistening in the beam Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream,

The time has been that these wild solitudes, Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me Oftener than now; and when the ills of life

The day had been a day of wind and storm; The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, And stooping from the zenith bright and warm

The summer day is closed, the sun is set: Well they have done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out

It is the spot I came to seek, My fathers' ancient burial-place Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

"I know where the timid fawn abides In the depths of the shaded dell, Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides,

Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,

Oh, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man, has shown

Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, From cliffs where the wood-flower clings; All summer he moistens his verdant steeps

I sat beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright The many-coloured flame, and played and leaped,

Earth's children cleave to Earth, her frail Decaying children dread decay. Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale,

A midnight black with clouds is in the sky; I seem to feel, upon my limbs, the weight Of its vast brooding shadow. All in vain

Diamante falso y fingido, - Engastado en pedernal, &c. "False diamond set in flint! the caverns of the mine Are warmer than the breast that holds that faithless heart of thine;

It is a fearful night; a feeble glare Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky; The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry,

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave The lovely vale that lies around thee. Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,

'Tis sweet, in the green Spring, To gaze upon the wakening fields around; Birds in the thicket sing,

When breezes are soft and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care, And hie me away to the woodland scene,

Not in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see Only in savage wood

Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock; While those, who seek to slay thy children, hold

Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,

The sad and solemn night Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light

I broke the spell that held me long, The dear, dear witchery of song. I said, the poet's idle lore

I cannot forget with what fervid devotion I worshipped the vision of verse and of fame. Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean,

Innocent child and snow-white flower! Well are ye paired in your opening hour. Thus should the pure and the lovely meet,

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs No school of long experience, that the world Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen

I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie

Oh Life! I breathe thee in the breeze, I feel thee bounding in my veins, I see thee in these stretching trees,

The earth may ring, from shore to shore, With echoes of a glorious name, But he, whose loss our tears deplore,

I stand upon my native hills again, Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky With garniture of waving grass and grain,

Love's worshippers alone can know The thousand mysteries that are his; His blazing torch, his twanging bow,

The earth was sown with early flowers, The heavens were blue and bright, I met a youthful cavalier

The stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies, I hear the rushing of the blast,

Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, In wonder and in scorn!

A power is on the earth and in the air, From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade,

Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot

They talk of short-lived pleasure, be it so, Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.

When he, who, from the scourge of wrong, Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, Saw the fair region, promised long,

'Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee And worshipped, while the husbandmen withdrew From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air, Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,

Far back in the ages, The plough with wreaths was crowned; The hands of kings and sages

Oh fairest of the rural maids! Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,

And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and they hanged them in the hill before the Lord; and they fell all seven together, and were put to death in the days of the harvest, in the first days, in the beginning of barley-harvest. And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until the water dropped upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest upon them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night. 2 Samuel, xxi. 10.

When freedom, from the land of Spain, By Spain's degenerate sons was driven, Who gave their willing limbs again

What heroes from the woodland sprung, When, through the fresh awakened land, The thrilling cry of freedom rung,

Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles

I buckle to my slender side The pistol and the scimitar, And in my maiden flower and pride

When the radiant morn of creation broke, And the world in the smile of God awoke, And the empty realms of darkness and death

Dost thou idly ask to hear At what gentle seasons Nymphs relent, when lovers near

Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear, The hunter of the west must go

Alexis calls me cruel; The rifted crags that hold The gathered ice of winter,

Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine Too brightly to shine long; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine,

The country ever has a lagging Spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses, showers and sunshine bring,

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours

Chained in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude

I. When to the common rest that crowns our days, Called in the noon of life, the good man goes,

To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade. The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,

Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up

Gone is the long, long winter night; Look, my beloved one! How glorious, through his depths of light,

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands

Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our sires Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades Or blossoms; and indulgent to the strong

Fair is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore, Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies; The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore,

I would not always reason. The straight path Wearies us with its never-varying lines, And we grow melancholy. I would make

At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands; He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain lands; The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between

Let me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-shifting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat

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,

'Tis not with gilded sabres That gleam in baldricks blue, Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,

'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, The wish possessed his mighty mind, To wander forth wherever lie

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;

Gather him to his grave again, And solemnly and softly lay, Beneath the verdure of the plain,

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow:

Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope, Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, With the cool sound of breezes in the beach,

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

Gone are the glorious Greeks of old, Glorious in mien and mind; Their bones are mingled with the mould,

Our free flag is dancing In the free mountain air, And burnished arms are glancing,

I. Here we halt our march, and pitch our tent On the rugged forest ground,

Ay, this is freedom! these pure skies Were never stained with village smoke: The fragrant wind, that through them flies,

Thy bower is finished, fairest! Fit bower for hunter's bride, Where old woods overshadow

Upon a rock that, high and sheer, Rose from the mountain's breast, A weary hunter of the deer

Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,

An Indian girl was sitting where Her lover, slain in battle, slept; Her maiden veil, her own black hair,

Beneath the waning moon I walk at night, And muse on human life, for all around Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight,

This is the church which Pisa, great and free, Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls, That earthquakes shook not from their poise, appear

Lament who will, in fruitless tears, The speed with which our moments fly; I sigh not over vanished years,

Region of life and light! Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er! Nor frost nor heat may blight

Matron! the children of whose love, Each to his grave, in youth hath passed, And now the mould is heaped above

All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye. The forms of men shall be as they had never been;

Seven long years has the desert rain Dropped on the clods that hide thy face; Seven long years of sorrow and pain

Weep not for Scio's children slain; Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain

When spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found,

When, as the garish day is done, Heaven burns with the descended sun, 'Tis passing sweet to mark,

Among our hills and valleys, I have known Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands Tended or gathered in the fruits of earth,

I saw an aged man upon his bier, His hair was thin and white, and on his brow A record of the cares of many a year;

The fresh savannas of the Sangamon Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts

Thou unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast,

These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name,

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight; Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time

This little rill, that from the springs Of yonder grove its current brings, Plays on the slope a while, and then

If slumber, sweet Lisena! Have stolen o'er thine eyes, As night steals o'er the glory

Vientecico murmurador, Que lo gozas y andas todo, &c. Airs, that wander and murmur round, Bearing delight where'er ye blow!

Ay! gloriously thou standest there, Beautiful, boundles firmament! That, swelling wide o'er earth and air,

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by, As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky; Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rustling sound,

Oh silvery streamlet of the fields, That flowest full and free! For thee the rains of spring return,

Wild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New-England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free,

'Tis a bleak wild hill, but green and bright In the summer warmth and the mid-day light; There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren,

I've watched too late; the morn is near; One look at God's broad silent sky! Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,

Beneath the forest's skirts I rest, Whose branching pines rise dark and high, And hear the breezes of the West

It was a hundred years ago, When, by the woodland ways, The traveller saw the wild deer drink,

I. Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;

When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell

Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair, Swimming in the pure quiet air! Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below

Fair insect! that, with threadlike legs spread out, And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, Does murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,

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

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,

Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! In the soft light of these serenest skies; From the broad highland region, black with pines,

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And coloured with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light

Supposed To Be Written At A Hamlet Near The Foot Of Mont Blanc. Not from the sands or cloven rocks, Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;

Upon the mountain's distant head, With trackless snows for ever white, Where all is still, and cold, and dead,

The night winds howled, the billows dashed Against the tossing chest; And Dana' to her broken heart

When the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam, And the woodlands awaking burst into a hymn, And the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream,

Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, Tell, of the iron heart! they could not tame! For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim