Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant. Bryant William Cullen

which I dress my ruffled hair;

      My dimmed and dusty arms I bring,

      And wash away the blood-stain there.

      Why should I guard from wind and sun

      This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled?

      It was for one – oh, only one —

      I kept its bloom, and he is dead.

      But they who slew him – unaware

      Of coward murderers lurking nigh —

      And left him to the fowls of air,

      Are yet alive – and they must die!

      They slew him – and my virgin years

      Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now.

      And many an Othman dame, in tears,

      Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow.

      I touched the lute in better days,

      I led in dance the joyous band;

      Ah! they may move to mirthful lays

      Whose hands can touch a lover's hand.

      The march of hosts that haste to meet

      Seems gayer than the dance to me;

      The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet

      As the fierce shout of victory.

      TO A CLOUD

      Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair,

      Swimming in the pure quiet air!

      Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below

      Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow;

      Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train,

      As cool it comes along the grain.

      Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee

      In thy calm way o'er land and sea;

      To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look

      On Earth as on an open book;

      On streams that tie her realms with silver bands,

      And the long ways that seam her lands;

      And hear her humming cities, and the sound

      Of the great ocean breaking round.

      Ay – I would sail, upon thy air-borne car,

      To blooming regions distant far,

      To where the sun of Andalusia shines

      On his own olive-groves and vines,

      Or the soft lights of Italy's clear sky

      In smiles upon her ruins lie.

      But I would woo the winds to let us rest

      O'er Greece, long fettered and oppressed,

      Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes

      From the old battle-fields and tombs,

      And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe

      Have dealt the swift and desperate blow,

      And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke

      Has touched its chains, and they are broke.

      Ay, we would linger, till the sunset there

      Should come, to purple all the air,

      And thou reflect upon the sacred ground

      The ruddy radiance streaming round.

      Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made!

      Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade.

      The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold,

      Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold:

      The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou mayst frown

      In the dark heaven when storms come down;

      And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye

      Miss thee, forever, from the sky.

      THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.6

      When Spring, to woods and wastes around,

      Brought bloom and joy again,

      The murdered traveller's bones were found,

      Far down a narrow glen.

      The fragrant birch, above him, hung

      Her tassels in the sky;

      And many a vernal blossom sprung,

      And nodded careless by.

      The red-bird warbled, as he wrought

      His hanging nest o'erhead,

      And fearless, near the fatal spot,

      Her young the partridge led.

      But there was weeping far away,

      And gentle eyes, for him,

      With watching many an anxious day,

      Were sorrowful and dim.

      They little knew, who loved him so,

      The fearful death he met,

      When shouting o'er the desert snow,

      Unarmed, and hard beset; —

      Nor how, when round the frosty pole

      The northern dawn was red,

      The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole

      To banquet on the dead;

      Nor how, when, strangers found his bones,

      They dressed the hasty bier,

      And marked his grave with nameless stones,

      Unmoistened by a tear.

      But long they looked, and feared, and wept,

      Within his distant home;

      And dreamed, and started as they slept,

      For joy that he was come.

      Long, long they looked – but never spied

      His welcome step again,

      Nor knew the fearful death he died

      Far down that narrow glen.

      HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR

      The sad and solemn night

      Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires;

      The glorious host of light

      Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires;

      All through her silent watches, gliding slow,

      Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.

      Day, too, hath many a star

      To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they:

      Through the blue fields afar,

      Unseen, they follow in his flaming way:

      Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim,

      Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.

      And thou dost see them rise,

      Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.

      Alone, in thy cold skies,

      Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet,

      Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train,

      Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.

      There, at morn's rosy birth,

      Thou

6

Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a woody ravine, near a solitary road passing between the mountains west of the village of Stockbridge. It was supposed that the person came to his death by violence, but no traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was only recollected that one evening, in the course of the previous winter, a traveller had stopped at an inn in the village of West Stockbridge: that he had inquired the way to Stockbridge; and that, in paying the innkeeper for something he had ordered, it appeared that he had a considerable sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking men were present, and went out about the same time that the traveller proceeded on his journey. During the winter, also, two men of shabby appearance, but plentifully supplied with money, had lingered for a while about the village of Stockbridge. Several years afterward, a criminal, about to be executed for a capital offence in Canada, confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting the name or residence of the person murdered.