Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant. Bryant William Cullen

was a scene of peace – and, like a spell,

      Did that serene and golden sunlight fall

      Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell,

      And precipice upspringing like a wall,

      And glassy river and white waterfall,

      And happy living things that trod the bright

      And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all,

      On many a lovely valley, out of sight,

      Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light.

      I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene

      An emblem of the peace that yet shall be,

      When o'er earth's continents, and isles between,

      The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea,

      And married nations dwell in harmony;

      When millions, crouching in the dust to one,

      No more shall beg their lives on bended knee,

      Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun

      The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done.

      Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers

      And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast,

      The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers

      And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last

      The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past.

      Lo, the clouds roll away – they break – they fly,

      And, like the glorious light of summer, cast

      O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky,

      On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.

      AUTUMN WOODS

      Ere, in the northern gale,

      The summer tresses of the trees are gone,

      The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,

      Have put their glory on.

      The mountains that infold,

      In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round,

      Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,

      That guard the enchanted ground.

      I roam the woods that crown

      The uplands, where the mingled splendors glow,

      Where the gay company of trees look down

      On the green fields below.

      My steps are not alone

      In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,

      Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown

      Along the winding way.

      And far in heaven, the while,

      The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,

      Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile —

      The sweetest of the year.

      Where now the solemn shade,

      Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;

      So grateful, when the noon of summer made

      The valleys sick with heat?

      Let in through all the trees

      Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright;

      Their sunny colored foliage, in the breeze,

      Twinkles, like beams of light.

      The rivulet, late unseen,

      Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,

      Shines with the image of its golden screen,

      And glimmerings of the sun.

      But 'neath you crimson tree,

      Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,

      Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

      Her blush of maiden shame.

      Oh, Autumn! why so soon

      Depart the hues that make thy forests glad,

      Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,

      And leave thee wild and sad!

      Ah! 'twere a lot too blest

      Forever in thy colored shades to stray;

      Amid the kisses of the soft southwest

      To roam and dream for aye;

      And leave the vain low strife

      That makes men mad – the tug for wealth and power —

      The passions and the cares that wither life,

      And waste its little hour.

      MUTATION

      They talk of short-lived pleasure – be it so —

      Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain

      Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.

      The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;

      And after dreams of horror, comes again

      The welcome morning with its rays of peace.

      Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,

      Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease:

      Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase

      Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:

      Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release

      His young limbs from the chains that round him press.

      Weep not that the world changes – did it keep

      A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

      NOVEMBER

      Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!

      One mellow smile through the soft vapory air,

      Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,

      Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.

      One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,

      And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,

      And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze,

      Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.

      Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee

      Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,

      The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,

      And man delight to linger in thy ray.

      Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear

      The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

      SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON

      I buckle to my slender side

      The pistol and the scimitar,

      And in my maiden flower and pride

      Am come to share the task of war.

      And yonder stands the fiery steed,

      That paws the ground and neighs to go,

      My charger of the Arab breed —

      I took him from the routed foe.

      My mirror is the