Thirty Poems

Front matter

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

NEW YORK: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 443 & 445 BROADWAY. LONDON: 16 LITTLE BRITAIN. M.DCCC.LXIV.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

Poems

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE.

Come, let us plant the apple tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infant's feet We softly fold the cradle sheet; So plant we the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;

Boughs where the thrush, with crimson beast, Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon,

And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple tree.

And when, above this apple tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, And guests in pronder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine, And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple tree Winds, and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,

Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple tree.

Each year shall give this apple tree A broader flash of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple tree.

And time shall waste this apple tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below,

Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years, Is wasting this apple tree?

"Who planted this old apple tree?" The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall saу; And gazing on its mossy stem, Tho gray-haired man shall answer them: "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple tree."

Poems

THE SNOW-SHOWER.

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes; The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies; And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow; <> Flake after flake, They sink in the dark and silent lake.

See how in a living swarm they come From the chambers beyond that misty veil; Some hover awhile in air, and some Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.

All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, Meet, and are still in the depths below; <> Flake after flake Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, Come floating downward in airy play, Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd That whiten by night the milky way; There broader and burlier masses fall; The sullen water buries them all— <> Flake after flake— All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

And some, as on tender wings they glide From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, Come clinging along their unsteady way;

As friend with friend, or husband with wife Makes hand in hand the passage of life; <> Each mated flake Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; <> Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake!

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, Who were for a time and now are not;

Like these fair children of cloud and frost, That glisten a moment and then are lost, <> Flake after flake— All lost in the dark and silent lake.

Yet look again, for the clouds divide; A gleam of blue on the water lies: And far away, on the mountain-side, A sunbeam falls from the opening skies. But the hurrying host that flew between The cloud and the water, no more is seen; <> Flake after flake, At rest in the dark and silent lake.

Poems

A RAIN DREAM.

These strifes, these tumults of the noisy world, Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth, And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt, Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend, In what serener mood we look upon The gloomiest aspects of the elements Among the woods and fields! Let us awhile, As the slow wind is rolling up the storm, In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets, For ever shaken by the importunate jar Of commerce, and upon the darkening air Look from the shelter of our rural home.

Who is not awed that listens to the Rain, Sending his voice before him? Mighty Rain! The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists; Thy shadow fills the hollow vale; the pools No longer glimmer, and the silvery streams Darken to veins of lead at thy approach. Oh, mighty Rain! already thou art here; And every roof is beaten by thy streams, And, as thou passest, every glassy spring Grows rough, and every leaf in all the woods Is struck, and quivers. All the hill-tops slake Their thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields, A thousand fainting gardens, are refreshed; A thousand idle rivulets start to speed, And with the graver murmur of the storm Blend their light voices as they hurry on. Thou fill'st the circle of the atmosphere Alone; there is no living thing abroad, No bird to wing the air nor boast to walk The field: the squirrel in the forest seeks

His hollow tree; the marmot of the field Has scampered to his den: the butterfly Hides under her broad leaf; the insect crowds That made the sunshine populous, lie close In their mysterious shelters, whence the sun Will summon them again. The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone. I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream, The friendly clouds drop down spring violets And summer columbines, and all the flowers That tuft the woodland floor, or overarch The streamlet:—spiky grass for genial June, Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman, And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves. I see these myriad drops that slake the dust, Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blue In billows on the lake or on the deep And bearing navies. I behold them change To threads of crystal as they sink in earth And leave its stains behind, to rise again In pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child,

Thirsty with play, in both his little hands Shall take the cool, clear water, raising it To wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noon How proudly will the water-lily ride The brimming pool, o'erlooking, like a queen, Her circle of broad leaves. In lonely wastes, When next the sunshine makes them beautiful, Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drink At the replenished hollows of the rock. Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still, All through the starless hours, the mighty Rain Smites with perpetual sound the forest leaves, And beats the matted grass, and still the earth Drinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds— Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks— Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling bee And brooding bird-drinks for her tender flowers, Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills.

A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the wind of night; A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud, In the black shadow and the chilly mist, Along the streaming mountain side, and through The dripping woods, and o'er the plashy fields, Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makes The journey of life alone, and nowhere meets A welcome or a friend, and still goes on In darkness. Yet awhile, a little while, And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play, And dally with the flowers, and gaily lift The slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain, And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky, White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm.

Poems

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

Merrily swinging on briar and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gaily drost, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice, good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care: Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a hundrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee.

Poems

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.

Oh, gentle one, thy birthday sun should rise Amid a chorus of the merriest birds That ever sang the stars out of the sky In a June morning. Rivulets should send A voice of gladness from their winding paths, Deep in o'erarching grass, where playful winds, Stirring the loaded stems should shower the, dew Upon the glamy water. Newly blown Roses, by thousands, to the garden walks Should tempt the lottering moth and diligent bee. The longest, brightest day in all the year

Should be the day on which thy cheerful eyes First opened on the earth, to make thy haunts Fairer and gladder for thy kindly looks. Thus might a poet say; but I must bring A birthday offering of an humbler strain, And yet it may not please thee less. I hold That 'twas the fitting season for thy birth When March, just ready to depart, begins To soften into April. Then we have The delicatest and most welcome flowers, And yet they take least heed of bitter wind And lowering sky. The periwinkle then, In an hour's sunshine, lifts her azure blooms Beside the cottage door; within the woods Tufts of ground-laurel, creeping underneath The leaves of the last summer, send their sweets Up to the chilly air; and, by the oak, The squirrel-cups, a graceful company, Hide in their bells a soft aërial blue— Sweet flowers, that nestle in the humblest nooks,

And yet within whose smallest bud is wrapt A world of promise! Still the north wind breathes His frost, and still the sky sheds snow and sleet; Yet ever, when the sun looks forth again, The flowers smile up to him from their low seats. Well hast thou borne the bleak March day of life. Its storms and its keen winds to thee have been Most kindly tempered, and through all its gloom There has been warmth and sunshine in thy heart; The griefs of life to thee have been like snows, That light upon the fields in early spring, Making them greener. In its milder hours, The smile of this pale season, thou hast seen, The glorious bloom of June, and in the note Of early bird, that comes a messenger From climes of endless verdure, thou hast heard

The choir that fills the summer woods with song. Now be the hours that yet remain to thee Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love, That inextinguishably dwell within Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light To the most desolate moments, like the glow Of a bright fireside in the wildest day; And kindly words and offices of good Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on, Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates Of a more genial season, and thy path Be lost to human eye among the bowers And living fountains of a brighter land.

Written March, 1855.

Poems

AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.

Already, close by our summer dwelling, The Easter sparrow repeats her song; A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms— The idle blossoms that sleep so long.

The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches, A hymn to welcome the budding year. The south wind wanders from field to forest, And softly whispers: the Spring is here.

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, Before those lays from the elm have ceased; The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly As in the air of her native East.

Though many a flower in the wood is waking, The daffodil is our doorside queen; She pushes upward the sward already, To spot with sunshine the early green.

No lays so joyous as these are warbled From wiry prison in maiden's bower; No pampered bloom of the greenhouse chamber Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower.

Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, And these fair sights of its sunny days Are only sweet when we fondly listen, And only fair when we fondly gaze.

There is no glory in star or blossom, Till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes, Till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks.

Poems

A SONG FOR NEW YEAR'S EVE.

Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay— Stay till the good old year, So long companion of our way, Shakes hands, and leaves us here. Oh stay, oh stay, One little hour, and then away.

The year, whose hopes were high and strong, Has now no hopes to wake; Yet one hour more of jest and song For his familiar sake. Oh stay, oh stay, One mirthful hour, and then away.

The kindly year, his liberal hands Have lavished all his store. And shall we turn from where he stands, Because he gives no more? Oh stay, oh stay, One grateful hour, and then away.

Days brightly came and calmly went, While yet he was our guest; How cheerfully the week was spent! How sweet the seventh day's rest! Oh stay, oh stay, One golden hour, and then away.

Dear friends were with us, some who sleep Beneath the coffin lid: What pleasant memories we keep Of all they said and did! Oh stay, oh stay, One tender hour, and then away.

Even while we sing he smiles his last And leaves our sphere behind. The good old year is with the past; Oh be the new as kind! Oh stay, oh stay, One parting strain, and then away.

Poems

THE WIND AND STREAM.

A brook came stealing from the ground; You scarcely saw its silvery gleam Among the herbs that hung around The borders of that winding stream, The pretty stream, the placid stream, The softly gliding, bashful stream.

A breeze came wandering from the sky, Light as the whispers of a dream; He put the o'erhanging grasses by, And softly stooped to kiss the stream, The pretty stream, the flattered stream, The shy, yet unreluctant stream.

The water, as the wind passed o'er, Shot upward many a glancing beam, Dimpled and quivered more and more, And tripped along, a livelier stream. The flattered stream, the simpering stream, The fond, delighted, silly stream.

Away the airy wanderer flew To where the fields with blossoms teem, To sparkling springs and rivers blue, And left alone that little stream, The flattered stream, the cheated stream, The sad, forsaken, lonely stream.

That careless wind came never back; He wanders yet the fields I deem, But, on its melancholy track, Complaining went that little stream, The cheated stream, the hopeless stream, The ever-murmuring, mourning stream.

Poems

THE LOST BIRD.

From the Spanish of Carolina Coronado de Perry

My bird has flown away, Far out of sight has flown, I know not where. Look in your lawn, I pray, Ye maidens, kind and fair, And see if my beloved bird be there.

His eyes are full of light; The eagle of the rock has such an eye; And plumes, exceeding bright,

Round his smooth temples lie, And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.

Look where the grass is gay With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers; And search, from spray to spray, The leafy laurel bowers, For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.

Find him, but do not dwell, With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see, Nor love his song too well; Send him, at once, to me, Or leave him to the air and liberty.

For only from my hand He takes the seed into his golden beak, And all unwiped shall stand The tears that wet my cheek, Till I have found the wanderer I seek.

My sight is darkened o'er, Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day, And when I hear no more The music of his lay, My heart in utter sadness faints away.

Poems

THE NIGHT JOURNEY OF A RIVER.

Oh River, gentle River! gliding on In silence underneath this starless sky! Thine is a ministry that never rests Even while the living slumber. For a time The meddler, man, hath left the elements In peace; the ploughman breaks the clods no more; The miner labors not, with steel and fire, To rend the rock, and he that hews the stone, And he that fells the forest, he that guides The loaded wain, and the poor animal That drags it, have forgotten, for a time, Their toils, and share the quiet of the earth. Thou pansest not in thine allotted task,

Oh darkling River! Through the night I hear Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach; I hear thy current stir the rustling sedge, That skirts thy bed; thou intermittest not Thine everlasting journey, drawing on A silvery train from many a woodland spring, And mountain brook. The dweller by thy side, Who moored his little boat upon thy beach, Though all the waters that upbore it then Have slid away o'or night, shall find, at morn, Thy channel filled with waters freshly drawn From distant cliffs and hollows where the rill Comes up amid the water-flags. All night Thou givest moisture to the thirsty roots Of the lithe willow and o'erhanging plane, And cherishest the herbage of thy bank, Spotted with little flowers, and sendest up Perpetually, the vapors from thy face, To steep the hills with dew, or darken heaven With drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower.

Oh River! darkling River! what a voice Is that thou utterest while all else is still— The ancient voice that, centuries ago, Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream. How many, at this hour, along thy course, Slumber to thine eternal murmurings, That mingle with the utterance of their dreams! At dead of night the child awakes and hears Thy soft, familiar dashings, and is soothed, And sleeps again. An airy multitude Of little echoes, all unheard by day, Faintly repeat, till morning, after thee, The story of thine endless goings forth. Yet there are those who lie beside thy bed For whom thou once didst rear the bowers that screen Thy margin, and didst water the green fields; And now there is no night so still that they Can hear thy lapse; their slumbers, were thy voice

Louder than ocean's, it could never break. For them the early violet no more Opens upon thy bank, nor, for their eyes, Glitter the crimson pictures of the clouds, Upon thy bosom, when the sun goes down. Their memories are abroad, the memories Of those who last were gathered to the earth, Lingering within the homes in which they sat, Hovering above the paths in which they walked, Haunting them like a presence. Even now They visit many a dreamer in the forms They walked in, ore at last they wore the shroud. And eyes there are which will not close to dream, For weeping and for thinking of the grave, The new-made grave, and the pale one within. These memories and these sorrows all shall fade, And pass away, and fresher memories And newer sorrows come and dwell awhile, Beside thy borders, and, in turn, depart.

On glide thy waters, till at last they flow Beneath the windows of the populous town, And all night long give back the gleam of lamps, And glimmer with the trains of light that stream From halls where dancers whirl. A dimmer ray Touches thy surface from the silent room In which they tend the sick, or gather round The dying; and a slender, steady beam Comes from the little chamber, in the roof Where, with a feverous crimson on her check, The solitary damsel, dying, too, Plies the quick needle till the stars grow pale. There, close beside the haunts of revel, stand The blank, unlighted windows, where the poor, In hunger and in darkness, wake till morn. There, drowsily, on the half conscious ear Of the dull watchman, pacing on the wharf, Falls the soft ripple of the waves that strike On the moored bark; but guiltier listeners

Are nigh, the prowlers of the night, who steal From shadowy nook to shadowy nook, and start If other sounds than thine are in the air. Oh, glide away from those abodes, that bring Pollution to thy channel and make foul Thy once clear current; summon thy quick waves And dimpling eddies; linger not, but haste, With all thy waters, haste thee to the deep, There to be tossed by shifting winds and rocked By that mysterious force which lives within The sea's immensity, and wields the weight Of its abysses, swaying to and fro The billowy mass, until the stain, at length, hall wholly pass away, and thou regain The crystal brightness of thy mountain springs.

Poems

THE LIFE THAT IS.

Thou, who so long hast pressed the couch of pain, Oh welcome, welcome back to life's free breath— To life's free breath and day's sweet light again, From the chill shadows of the gate of death.

For thou hadst reached the twilight bound between The world of spirits and this grosser sphere; Dimly by thee the things of earth wore seen, And faintly fell carth's voices on thine ear.

And now, how gladly we behold, at last, The wonted smile returning to thy brow; The very wind's low whisper, breathing past, In the light leaves, is music to thee now.

Thou wert not weary of thy lot; the earth Was ever good and pleasant in thy sight; Still clung thy loves about the household hearth, And sweet was every day's returning light.

Then welcome back to all thou would'st not leave, To this grand march of seasons, days and hours; The glory of the morn, the glow of eve, The beauty of the streams, and stars, and flowers;

To eyes on which thine own delight to rest; To voices which it is thy joy to hear;

To the kind toils that ever pleased thee best, The willing tasks of love, that made life dear.

Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers Offered where crowds in reverent worship come, Or softly breathed amid the tender cares And loving inmates of thy quiet home.

Thou bring'st no tidings of the better land, Even from its verge; the mysteries opened there Are what the faithful heart may understand In its still depths, yet words may not declare.

And well I deem, that, from the brighter side Of life's dim border, some o'erflowing rays Streamed from the inner glory, shall abide Upon thy spirit through the coming days.

Twice wert thou given me; once in thy fair prime, Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met, And all the blossoms of that hopeful time Clustered and glowed where'er thy steps were set.

And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again Given back to forvent prayers and yearnings strong, From the drear realm of sickness and of pain, When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long.

Now may we keep thee from the balmy air And radiant walks of heaven a little space, Where He, who went before thee to prepare For His meek followers, shall assign thy place.

Castellamare, May, 1858.

Poems

SONG.

"These Praires Glow with Flowers."

These prairies glow with flowers, These groves are tall and fair, The sweet lay of the mocking bird Rings in the morning air; And yet I pine to see My native hill once more, And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp: Beside its cottage door.

And he, for whom I left My native hill and brook, Alas, I sometimes think I trace A coldness in his look.

If I have lost his love I know my heart will break; And haply, they I left for him Will sorrow for my sake.

Poems

A SICK-BED.

Long hast thou watched my bed, And smoothed the pillow oft For this poor, aching head, With touches kind and soft.

Oh! smooth it yet again, As softly as before; Once—only once—and then I need thy hand no more.

Yet here I may not stay, Where I so long have lain,

Through many a restless day, And many a night of pain.

But bear me gently forth Beneath the open sky, Where, on the pleasant earth, Till night the sunbeams lie.

There, through the coming days, I shall not look to thee My weary side to raise, And shift it tenderly.

There sweetly shall I sleep; Nor wilt thou need to bring And put to my hot lip Cool water from the spring;

Nor wet the kerchief laid Upon my burning brow; Nor from my eyelids shade The light that wounds them now;

Nor watch that none shall tread, With noisy footstep, nigh; Nor listen by my bed, To hear my faintest sigh,

And feign a look of cheer, And words of comfort speak, Yet turn to hide the tear That gathers on thy cheek.

Beside me, where I rest, Thy loving hands will sot The flowers that please me best: Moss-rose and violet.

Then to the sleep I crave Resign me, till I see The face of Him who gave His life for thee and me.

Yet, with the setting sun, Come, now and then, at eve,

And think of me as one For whom thon should'st not grieve:

Who, when the kind release From sin and suffering came, Passed to the appointed peace In murmuring thy name.

Leave at my side a space, Where thou shalt come, at last, To find a resting place, When many years are past.