Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant. Bryant William Cullen

I little thought that the stern power,

      Whose fearful praise I sang, would try me thus

      Before the strain was ended. It must cease —

      For he is in his grave who taught my youth

      The art of verse, and in the bud of life

      Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off

      Untimely! when thy reason in its strength,

      Ripened by years of toil and studious search,

      And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught

      Thy hand to practise best the lenient art

      To which thou gavest thy laborious days,

      And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth

      Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes

      And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill

      Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale

      When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou

      Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have

      To offer at thy grave – this – and the hope

      To copy thy example, and to leave

      A name of which the wretched shall not think

      As of an enemy's, whom they forgive

      As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou

      Whose early guidance trained my infant steps —

      Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep

      Of death is over, and a happier life

      Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.

      Now thou art not – and yet the men whose guilt

      Has wearied Heaven for vengeance – he who bears

      False witness – he who takes the orphan's bread,

      And robs the widow – he who spreads abroad

      Polluted hands in mockery of prayer,

      Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look

      On what is written, yet I blot not out

      The desultory numbers; let them stand,

      The record of an idle revery.

      THE MASSACRE AT SCIO.3

      Weep not for Scio's children slain;

      Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed,

      Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain

      For vengeance on the murderer's head.

      Though high the warm red torrent ran

      Between the flames that lit the sky,

      Yet, for each drop, an armèd man

      Shall rise, to free the land, or die.

      And for each corpse, that in the sea

      Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds,

      A hundred of the foe shall be

      A banquet for the mountain-birds.

      Stern rites and sad shall Greece ordain

      To keep that day along her shore,

      Till the last link of slavery's chain

      Is shattered, to be worn no more.

      THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT

      An Indian girl was sitting where

      Her lover, slain in battle, slept;

      Her maiden veil, her own black hair,4

      Came down o'er eyes that wept;

      And wildly, in her woodland tongue,

      This sad and simple lay she sung:

      "I've pulled away the shrubs that grew

      Too close above thy sleeping head,

      And broke the forest-boughs that threw

      Their shadows o'er thy bed,

      That, shining from the sweet southwest,

      The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

      "It was a weary, weary road

      That led thee to the pleasant coast,

      Where thou, in his serene abode,

      Hast met thy father's ghost;

      Where everlasting autumn lies

      On yellow woods and sunny skies.

      "'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,

      That shod thee for that distant land;

      'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid

      Beside thy still cold hand;

      Thy bow in many a battle bent,

      Thy arrows never vainly sent.

      "With wampum-belts I crossed thy breast,

      And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,

      And laid the food that pleased thee best,

      In plenty, by thy side,

      And decked thee bravely, as became

      A warrior of illustrious name.

      "Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed

      The long dark journey of the grave,

      And in the land of light, at last,

      Hast joined the good and brave;

      Amid the flushed and balmy air,

      The bravest and the loveliest there.

      "Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid

      Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray —

      To her who sits where thou wert laid,

      And weeps the hours away,

      Yet almost can her grief forget,

      To think that thou dost love her yet.

      "And thou, by one of those still lakes

      That in a shining cluster lie,

      On which the south wind scarcely breaks

      The image of the sky,

      A bower for thee and me hast made

      Beneath the many-colored shade.

      "And thou dost wait and watch to meet

      My spirit sent to join the blessed,

      And, wondering what detains my feet

      From that bright land of rest,

      Dost seem, in every sound, to hear

      The rustling of my footsteps near."

      ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION

      Far back in the ages,

      The plough with wreaths was crowned;

      The hands of kings and sages

      Entwined the chaplet round;

      Till men of spoil disdained the toil

      By which the world was nourished,

      And dews of blood enriched the soil

      Where green their laurels flourished.

      – Now the world her fault repairs —

      The guilt that stains her story;

      And weeps her crimes amid the cares

      That

3

This poem, written about the time of the horrible butchery of the Sciotes by the Turks, in 1824, has been more fortunate than most poetical predictions. The independence of the Greek nation which it foretold, has come to pass, and the massacre, by inspiring a deeper detestation of their oppressors, did much to promote that event.

4

"The unmarried females have a modest falling down of the hair over the eyes." – Eliot.