As, darkly limn'd upon the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain fligh
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.

Within this lowly grave a conqueror lies;
And yet the monument proclaims it not,

Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought
The emblems of a fame that never dies,-
Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.
A simple name alone,

To the great world unknown,

Is graven here, and wild flowers rising round,
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,
Lean lovingly against the humble stone.

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart
No man of iron mould and bloody hands,
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands
The passions that consumed his restless heart;
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest in mien and mind

Of gentle womankind,

Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May;

Yet at the thought of others' pain, a shade
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.
Nor deem that when the hand that moulders here
Was raised in menace, realms were chill'd with fear,
And armies muster'd at the sign as when
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy east,-
Gray captains leading bands of veteran men
And fiery youths to be the vultures' feast.
Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave
The victory to her who fills this grave;
Alone her task was wrought;

Alone the battle fought;

Through that long strife her constant hope was stay'd
On God alone, nor look'd for other aid.

She met the hosts of sorrow with a look

That alter'd not beneath the frown they wore;
And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took
Meekly her gentle rule, and frown'd no more.
Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,
And calmly broke in twain
The fiery shafts of pain,

And rent the nets of passion from her path.
By that victorious hand despair was slain.
With love she vanquish'd hate, and overcame
Evil with good in her Great Master's name.
Her glory is not of this shadowy state,

Glory that with the fleeting season dies;
But when she enter'd at the sapphire gate,
What joy was radiant in celestial eyes!

How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung,
And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!
And He who, long before,

Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,

The mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,

Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat;
He who, returning glorious from the grave,

Dragg'd Death, disarm'd, in chains, a crouching slave.

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;

Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.

O gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go

Consoled, though sad, in hope, and yet in fear.
Brief is the time, I know,

The warfare scarce begun;

Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won;
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthen'd thee.
The victors' names are yet too few to fill
Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory
That minister'd to thee is open'd still.

THE PAST.

Thou unrelenting Past!

Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,

And fetters, sure and fast,

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.
Far in thy realm withdrawn

Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
And glorious ages gone

Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.
Childhood, with all its mirth,

Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground,
And, last, Man's Life on earth,

Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,

Thou hast my earlier friends-the good—the kind, Yielded to thee with tears,

The venerable form-the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring

The lost ones back;-yearns with desire intense,
And struggles hard to wring

Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.
In vain :-thy gates deny

All passage save to those who hence depart;
Nor to the streaming eye

Thou giv'st them back,-nor to the broken heart.
In thy abysses hide

Beauty and excellence unknown :-to thee
Earth's wonder and her pride

Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea;
Labors of good to man,

Unpublish'd charity, unbroken faith,-
Love, that midst grief began,

And grew with years, and falter'd not in death.

Full many a mighty name

Lurks in thy depths, unutter'd, unrevered;
With thee are silent fame,

Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear'd.

Thine for a space are they :

Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;
Thy gates shall yet give way,

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

All that of good and fair

Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
Shall then come forth, to wear

The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perish'd-no!

Kind words, remember'd voices once so sweet,
Smiles, radiant long ago,

And features, the great soul's apparent seat,

All shall come back; each tie

Of pure affection shall be knit again;

Alone shall Evil die,

And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold

Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her who, still and cold,

Fills the next grave,-the beautiful and young.1

THE EVENING WIND.

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day!
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee

To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone,-a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And languishing to hear thy grateful sound,

Lies the vast inland, stretch'd beyond the sight.
Go forth, into the gathering shade; go forth,-
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide, old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs,
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,

And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore,

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;

Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,

Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;

"No poet in our country-we might perhaps add, in any country-is so exquisite in rhythm, so classically pure and accurate in language, so appropriate in diction, phrase, simile, metaphor, as Bryant. He dips his pen in words as an endowed painter his pencil in colors. His vein is deep, his chosen themes serious, and generally tinged with a not unpleasing melancholy; but pathos is his pre-eminent endowment."--Knickerbocker, i. 318.

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave,-
Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle-cry:

Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weapon'd throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown-yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,

And dies among his worshippers.1

Of this verse an English critic thus writes:-"Mr. Bryant has certainly the rare merit of having written a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines in our recollection. It has always read to us as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each above a king's

ransom."