Partake the deep contentment; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the winged plunderer
That sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves, And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, With all their earth upon them, twisting high, Breathed fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
WRITTEN IN THE POET'S EIGHTEENTH YEAR
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile, And eloquence of beauty and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware.
When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; Go forth under the open sky and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around Earth and her waters, and the depths of air Comes a still voice. -
Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, - the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods - rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,- Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep - the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
- William Cullen Bryant
A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,
There falls on the old, gray city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.
The smoke ascends
In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night
Night with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.
My task accomplished and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart
Some late lark singing,
Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!
O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
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