Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant. Bryant William Cullen

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      Oh, deem not they are blest alone

      Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;

      The Power who pities man, hath shown

      A blessing for the eyes that weep.

      The light of smiles shall fill again

      The lids that overflow with tears;

      And weary hours of woe and pain

      Are promises of happier years.

      There is a day of sunny rest

      For every dark and troubled night:

      And grief may hide an evening guest,

      But joy shall come with early light.

      And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,

      Dost shed the bitter drops like rain,

      Hope that a brighter, happier sphere

      Will give him to thy arms again.

      Nor let the good man's trust depart,

      Though life its common gifts deny, —

      Though with a pierced and bleeding heart

      And spurned of men, he goes to die.

      For God hath marked each sorrowing day

      And numbered every secret tear,

      And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay

      For all his children suffer here.

      When he, who, from the scourge of wrong,

      Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly,

      Saw the fair region, promised long,

      And bowed him on the hills to die;

      God made his grave, to men unknown,

      Where Moab's rocks a vale infold,

      And laid the aged seer alone

      To slumber while the world grows old.

      Thus still, whene'er the good and just

      Close the dim eye on life and pain,

      Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust

      Till the pure spirit comes again.

      Though nameless, trampled, and forgot,

      His servant's humble ashes lie,

      Yet God hath marked and sealed the spot,

      To call its inmate to the sky.

      When insect wings are glistening in the beam

      Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright,

      Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream,

      Wander amid the mild and mellow light;

      And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay,

      Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.

      Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now

      Go'st down in glory! ever beautiful

      And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou

      Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool,

      Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high

      Climbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid-sky.

      Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair,

      Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues,

      That live among the clouds, and flush the air,

      Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews.

      Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard

      The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird.

      They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide,

      Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won;

      They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died,

      Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun;

      Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair,

      And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air.

      So, with the glories of the dying day,

      Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues,

      The memory of the brave who passed away

      Tenderly mingled; – fitting hour to muse

      On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed

      Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead.

      For ages, on the silent forests here,

      Thy beams did fall before the red man came

      To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer

      Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim.

      Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods,

      Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods.

      Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look,

      For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase,

      And well-fought wars; green sod and silver brook

      Took the first stain of blood; before thy face

      The warrior generations came and passed,

      And glory was laid up for many an age to last.

      Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze

      Goes down the west, while night is pressing on,

      And with them the old tale of better days,

      And trophies of remembered power, are gone.

      Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough

      Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now.

      I stand upon their ashes in thy beam,

      The offspring of another race, I stand,

      Beside a stream they loved, this valley-stream;

      And where the night-fire of the quivered band

      Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung,

      I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue.

      Farewell! but thou shalt come again – thy light

      Must shine on other changes, and behold

      The place of the thronged city still as night —

      States fallen – new empires built upon the old —

      But never shalt thou see these realms again

      Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men.

      Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart

      Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem

      My voice unworthy of the theme it tries, —

      I would take up the hymn to Death, and say

      To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee

      And СКАЧАТЬ