Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant. Bryant William Cullen

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      The stormy March is come at last,

      With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;

      I hear the rushing of the blast,

      That through the snowy valley flies.

      Ah, passing few are they who speak,

      Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;

      Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak,

      Thou art a welcome month to me.

      For thou, to northern lands, again

      The glad and glorious sun dost bring,

      And thou hast joined the gentle train

      And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

      And, in thy reign of blast and storm,

      Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,

      When the changed winds are soft and warm,

      And heaven puts on the blue of May.

      Then sing aloud the gushing rills

      In joy that they again are free,

      And, brightly leaping down the hills,

      Renew their journey to the sea.

      The year's departing beauty hides

      Of wintry storms the sullen threat;

      But in thy sternest frown abides

      A look of kindly promise yet.

      Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,

      And that soft time of sunny showers,

      When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,

      Seems of a brighter world than ours.

      Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine

      Too brightly to shine long; another Spring

      Shall deck her for men's eyes – but not for thine —

      Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.

      The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,

      And the vexed ore no mineral of power;

      And they who love thee wait in anxious grief

      Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.

      Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come

      Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee,

      As light winds wandering through groves of bloom

      Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.

      Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain;

      And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.

      "I know where the timid fawn abides

      In the depths of the shaded dell,

      Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides,

      With its many stems and its tangled sides,

      From the eye of the hunter well.

      "I know where the young May violet grows,

      In its lone and lowly nook,

      On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws

      Its broad dark bough, in solemn repose,

      Far over the silent brook.

      "And that timid fawn starts not with fear

      When I steal to her secret bower;

      And that young May violet to me is dear,

      And I visit the silent streamlet near,

      To look on the lovely flower."

      Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks

      To the hunting-ground on the hills;

      'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks,

      With her bright black eyes and long black locks,

      And voice like the music of rills.

      He goes to the chase – but evil eyes

      Are at watch in the thicker shades;

      For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs,

      And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize,

      The flower of the forest maids.

      The boughs in the morning wind are stirred,

      And the woods their song renew,

      With the early carol of many a bird,

      And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard

      Where the hazels trickle with dew.

      And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,

      Ere eve shall redden the sky,

      A good red deer from the forest shade,

      That bounds with the herd through grove and glade,

      At her cabin-door shall lie.

      The hollow woods, in the setting sun,

      Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay;

      And Maquon's sylvan labors are done,

      And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won

      He bears on his homeward way.

      He stops near his bower – his eye perceives

      Strange traces along the ground —

      At once to the earth his burden he heaves;

      He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves;

      And gains its door with a bound.

      But the vines are torn on its walls that leant,

      And all from the young shrubs there

      By struggling hands have the leaves been rent,

      And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent,

      One tress of the well-known hair.

      But where is she who, at this calm hour,

      Ever watched his coming to see?

      She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower;

      He calls – but he only hears on the flower

      The hum of the laden bee.

      It is not a time for idle grief,

      Nor a time for tears to flow;

      The horror that freezes his limbs is brief —

      He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf

      Of darts made sharp for the foe.

      And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet

      Where he bore the maiden away;

      And he darts on the fatal path more fleet

      Than the blast hurries the vapor and sleet

      O'er the wild November day.

      'Twas early summer when Maquon's СКАЧАТЬ