Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant. Bryant William Cullen

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      It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk

      The dew that lay upon the morning grass;

      There is no rustling in the lofty elm

      That canopies my dwelling, and its shade

      Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint

      And interrupted murmur of the bee,

      Settling on the sick flowers, and then again

      Instantly on the wing. The plants around

      Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize

      Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops

      Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.

      But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,

      With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,

      As if the scorching heat and dazzling light

      Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,

      Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven —

      Their bases on the mountains – their white tops

      Shining in the far ether – fire the air

      With a reflected radiance, and make turn

      The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie

      Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,

      Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,

      Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind

      That still delays his coming. Why so slow,

      Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

      Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth

      Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves

      He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,

      The pine is bending his proud top, and now

      Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak

      Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes;

      Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!

      The deep distressful silence of the scene

      Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds

      And universal motion. He is come,

      Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,

      And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings

      Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,

      And sound of swaying branches, and the voice

      Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs

      Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,

      By the road-side and the borders of the brook,

      Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves

      Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew

      Were on them yet, and silver waters break

      Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

      It is the spot I came to seek —

      My father's ancient burial-place,

      Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

      Withdrew our wasted race.

      It is the spot – I know it well —

      Of which our old traditions tell.

      For here the upland bank sends out

      A ridge toward the river-side;

      I know the shaggy hills about,

      The meadows smooth and wide,

      The plains, that, toward the southern sky,

      Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

      A white man, gazing on the scene,

      Would say a lovely spot was here,

      And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,

      Between the hills so sheer.

      I like it not – I would the plain

      Lay in its tall old groves again.

      The sheep are on the slopes around,

      The cattle in the meadows feed,

      And laborers turn the crumbling ground,

      Or drop the yellow seed,

      And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,

      Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

      Methinks it were a nobler sight

      To see these vales in woods arrayed,

      Their summits in the golden light,

      Their trunks in grateful shade,

      And herds of deer that bounding go

      O'er hills and prostrate trees below.

      And then to mark the lord of all,

      The forest hero, trained to wars,

      Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,

      And seamed with glorious scars,

      Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare

      The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

      This bank, in which the dead were laid,

      Was sacred when its soil was ours;

      Hither the silent Indian maid

      Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,

      And the gray chief and gifted seer

      Worshipped the god of thunders here.

      But now the wheat is green and high

      On clods that hid the warrior's breast,

      And scattered in the furrows lie

      The weapons of his rest;

      And there, in the loose sand, is thrown

      Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

      Ah, little thought the strong and brave

      Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth —

      Or the young wife that weeping gave

      Her first-born to the earth,

      That the pale race, who waste us now,

      Among their bones should guide the plough.

      They waste us – ay – like April snow

      In the warm noon, we shrink away;

      And fast they follow, as we go

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