We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; VERSES. IF I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had past, And still upon that face I look, And still the thought I will not brook, But when I speak-thou dost not say, If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, Yet there was round thee such a dawn As fancy never could have drawn, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. BRYANT's poetry displays a chastened delicacy and simplicity, both in the expression and sentiment, which is equally uncommon and delightful. He possesses a refined fancy and a pure, exquisite taste. His descriptions from nature are executed with a quiet accuracy, and with great freshness and originality. He is soft and sweet in the colouring of his language, graceful in his imagery, and not being profuse of ornament, whatever he uses is select and appropriate, and gives a native richness to his compositions which we would not wish to see diminished or increased. Thanawpsis is the finest specimen of his genius. Its spirit is like that of Wordsworth, but yet richer; and it may rank with the most elevated productions of the English poet. Bryant's strains are all of them beautifully pure in their moral influence, inspiring the heart with a true love of nature, and a reverence for religion. THE WESTERN WORLD. LATE from this western shore, that morning chased Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yell'd near. And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing. Then, all his youthful paradise around, And all the broad and boundless mainland lay, Cool'd by the interminable wood, that frown'd O'er mound and vale, where never summer ray Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild; Yet many a shelter'd glade, with blossoms gay, Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled. There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake Spread its blue sheet that flash'd with many an oar, Look now abroad-another race has fill'd New colonies forth, that toward the western seas Here the free spirit of mankind at length TO A WATERFOWL. WHITHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power, whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,- Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fann'd At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere; And soon that toil shall end, Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet on my heart He, who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN. THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves lie dead, Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood, In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The windflower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, glow; But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood, plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now when comes the calm mild day-as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. |