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 fra grance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. O MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT O mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread Is bright as thine own sunny sky. Ay, let them rail, those haughty ones, Its life between thee and the foe. They know not, in their hate and pride, Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen; 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 fralate he bore, grance And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. O MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT O mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread Is bright as thine own sunny sky. Ay, let them rail, those haughty ones, Its life between thee and the foe. They know not, in their hate and pride, Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen; What cordial welcomes greet the guest How faith is kept, and truth revered, And where the ocean border foams. There's freedom at thy gates, and rest For the starved laborer toil and bread. Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds. O fair young mother! on thy brow Drop strength and riches at thy feet. Thine eye, with every coming hour, Would brand thy name with words of scorn, Upon their lips the taunt shall die. |