Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 38

New are the leaves on the oaken spray, New the blades of the silky gra.s.s; Flowers, that were buds but yesterday, Peep from the ground where'er I pa.s.s.

These gay idlers, the b.u.t.terflies, Broke, to-day, from their winter shroud; These light airs, that winnow the skies, Blow, just born, from the soft, white cloud.

Gus.h.i.+ng fresh in the little streams, What a prattle the waters make!

Even the sun, with his tender beams, Seems as young as the flowers they wake.

Children are wading, with cheerful cries, In the shoals of the sparkling brook; Laughing maidens, with soft, young eyes, Walk or sit in the shady nook.

What am I doing, thus alone, In the glory of Nature here, Silver-haired, like a snow-flake thrown On the greens of the springing year?

Only for brows unploughed by care, Eyes that glisten with hope and mirth, Cheeks unwrinkled, and unblanched hair, s.h.i.+nes this holiday of the earth.

Under the gra.s.s, with the clammy clay, Lie in darkness the last year's flowers, Born of a light that has pa.s.sed away, Dews long dried and forgotten showers.

"Under the gra.s.s is the fitting home,"

So they whisper, "for such as thou, When the winter of life is come, Chilling the blood, and frosting the brow."

THE CLOUD ON THE WAY.

See, before us, in our journey, broods a mist upon the ground; Thither leads the path we walk in, blending with that gloomy bound.

Never eye hath pierced its shadows to the mystery they screen; Those who once have pa.s.sed within it never more on earth are seen.

Now it seems to stoop beside us, now at seeming distance lowers, Leaving banks that tempt us onward bright with summer-green and flowers.

Yet it blots the way forever; there our journey ends at last; Into that dark cloud we enter, and are gathered to the past.

Thou who, in this flinty pathway, leading through a stranger-land, Pa.s.sest down the rocky valley, walking with me hand in hand, Which of us shall be the soonest folded to that dim Unknown?

Which shall leave the other walking in this flinty path alone?

Even now I see thee shudder, and thy cheek is white with fear, And thou clingest to my side as comes that darkness sweeping near.

"Here," thou sayst, "the path is rugged, sown with thorns that wound the feet; But the sheltered glens are lovely, and the rivulet's song is sweet; Roses breathe from tangled thickets; lilies bend from ledges brown; Pleasantly between the pelting showers the suns.h.i.+ne gushes down; Dear are those who walk beside us, they whose looks and voices make All this rugged region cheerful, till I love it for their sake.

Far be yet the hour that takes me where that chilly shadow lies, From the things I know and love, and from the sight of loving eyes!"

So thou murmurest, fearful one; but see, we tread a rougher way; Fainter glow the gleams of suns.h.i.+ne that upon the dark rocks play; Rude winds strew the faded flowers upon the crags o'er which we pa.s.s; Banks of verdure, when we reach them, hiss with tufts of withered gra.s.s.

One by one we miss the voices which we loved so well to hear; One by one the kindly faces in that shadow disappear.

Yet upon the mist before us fix thine eyes with closer view; See, beneath its sullen skirts, the rosy morning glimmers through.

One whose feet the thorns have wounded pa.s.sed that barrier and came back, With a glory on His footsteps lighting yet the dreary track.

Boldly enter where He entered; all that seems but darkness here, When thou once hast pa.s.sed beyond it, haply shall be crystal-clear.

Viewed from that serener realm, the walks of human life may lie, Like the page of some familiar volume, open to thine eye; Haply, from the o'erhanging shadow, thou mayst stretch an unseen hand, To support the wavering steps that print with blood the rugged land.

Haply, leaning o'er the pilgrim, all unweeting thou art near, Thou mayst whisper words of warning or of comfort in his ear Till, beyond the border where that brooding mystery bars the sight, Those whom thou hast fondly cherished stand with thee in peace and light.

THE TIDES.

The moon is at her full, and, riding high, Floods the calm fields with light; The airs that hover in the summer-sky Are all asleep to-night.

There comes no voice from the great woodlands round That murmured all the day; Beneath the shadow of their boughs the ground Is not more still than they.

But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep; His rising tides I hear, Afar I see the glimmering billows leap; I see them breaking near.

Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fair Pure light that sits on high-- Springs eagerly, and faintly sinks, to where The mother-waters lie.

Upward again it swells; the moonbeams show Again its glimmering crest; Again it feels the fatal weight below, And sinks, but not to rest.

Again and yet again; until the Deep Recalls his brood of waves; And, with a sullen moan, abashed, they creep Back to his inner caves.

Brief respite! they shall rush from that recess With noise and tumult soon, And fling themselves, with unavailing stress, Up toward the placid moon.

O restless Sea, that, in thy prison here, Dost struggle and complain; Through the slow centuries yearning to be near To that fair orb in vain;

The glorious source of light and heat must warm Thy billows from on high, And change them to the cloudy trains that form The curtain of the sky.

Then only may they leave the waste of brine In which they welter here, And rise above the hills of earth, and s.h.i.+ne In a serener sphere.

ITALY.

Voices from the mountains speak, Apennines to Alps reply; Vale to vale and peak to peak Toss an old-remembered cry: "Italy Shall be free!"

Such the mighty shout that fills All the pa.s.ses of her hills.

All the old Italian lakes Quiver at that quickening word; Como with a thrill awakes; Garda to her depths is stirred; Mid the steeps Where he sleeps, Dreaming of the elder years, Startled Thrasymenus hears.

Sweeping Arno, swelling Po, Murmur freedom to their meads.

Tiber swift and Liris slow Send strange whispers from their reeds.

"Italy Shall be free!"

Sing the glittering brooks that slide, Toward the sea, from Etna's side.

Long ago was Gracchus slain; Brutus perished long ago; Yet the living roots remain Whence the shoots of greatness grow; Yet again, G.o.dlike men, Sprung from that heroic stem, Call the land to rise with them.

They who haunt the swarming street, They who chase the mountain-boar, Or, where cliff and billow meet, Prune the vine or pull the oar, With a stroke Break their yoke; Slaves but yestereve were they-- Freemen with the dawning day.

Looking in his children's eyes, While his own with gladness flash, "These," the Umbrian father cries, "Ne'er shall crouch beneath the las.h.!.+

These shall ne'er Brook to wear Chains whose cruel links are twined Round the crushed and withering mind."

Monarchs! ye whose armies stand Harnessed for the battle-field!

Pause, and from the lifted hand Drop the bolts of war ye wield.

Stand aloof While the proof Of the people's might is given; Leave their kings to them and Heaven!

Stand aloof, and see the oppressed Chase the oppressor, pale with fear, As the fresh winds of the west Blow the misty valleys clear.

Stand and see Italy Cast the gyves she wears no more To the gulfs that steep her sh.o.r.e.