Poems by William Cullen Bryant

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I had a dream, a strange, wild dream,
The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways
Decolor, obscuris, vilis, non ille repexam
There sits a lovely maiden,
"Oh father, let us hence, for hark,
Cool shades and dews are round my way,
Come take our boy, and we will go
The quiet August noon has come,
When insect wings are glistening in the beam
The time has been that these wild solitudes,
The day had been a day of wind and storm;
The summer day is closed, the sun is set:
It is the spot I came to seek,
"I know where the timid fawn abides
Ere, in the northern gale,
Oh, deem not they are blest alone
Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps,
I sat beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped
Earth's children cleave to Earth, her frail
A midnight black with clouds is in the sky;
Diamante falso y fingido, - Engastado en pedernal, &c.
It is a fearful night; a feeble glare
Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave
'Tis sweet, in the green Spring,
When breezes are soft and skies are fair,
Not in the solitude
Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock
Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart
The sad and solemn night
I broke the spell that held me long,
I cannot forget with what fervid devotion
Innocent child and snow-white flower!
Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
I gazed upon the glorious sky
Oh Life! I breathe thee in the breeze,
The earth may ring, from shore to shore,
I stand upon my native hills again,
Love's worshippers alone can know
The earth was sown with early flowers,
The stormy March is come at last,
Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted!
A power is on the earth and in the air,
Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild
They talk of short-lived pleasure, be it so,
When he, who, from the scourge of wrong,
'Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath,
Far back in the ages,
Oh fairest of the rural maids!
And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and they hanged them in the hill before the Lord; and they fell all seven together, and were put to death in the days of the harvest, in the first days, in the beginning of barley-harvest.
When freedom, from the land of Spain,
What heroes from the woodland sprung,
Our band is few, but true and tried,
I buckle to my slender side
When the radiant morn of creation broke,
Dost thou idly ask to hear
Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow
Alexis calls me cruel;
Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
The country ever has a lagging Spring,
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Chained in the market-place he stood,
To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,
Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines,
Gone is the long, long winter night;
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our sires
Fair is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore,
I would not always reason. The straight path
At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands;
Let me move slowly through the street,
Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew,
'Tis not with gilded sabres
'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh,
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Gather him to his grave again,
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope,
How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
Gone are the glorious Greeks of old,
Our free flag is dancing
Ay, this is freedom! these pure skies
Thy bower is finished, fairest!
Upon a rock that, high and sheer,
Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh,
An Indian girl was sitting where
Beneath the waning moon I walk at night,
This is the church which Pisa, great and free,
Lament who will, in fruitless tears,
Region of life and light!
Matron! the children of whose love,
All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away,
Seven long years has the desert rain
Weep not for Scio's children slain;
When spring, to woods and wastes around,
When, as the garish day is done,
Among our hills and valleys, I have known
I saw an aged man upon his bier,
The fresh savannas of the Sangamon
Thou unrelenting Past!
These are the gardens of the Desert, these
My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
This little rill, that from the springs
If slumber, sweet Lisena!
Vientecico murmurador, Que lo gozas y andas todo, &c.
Ay! gloriously thou standest there,
The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by,
Oh silvery streamlet of the fields,
Wild was the day; the wintry sea
'Tis a bleak wild hill, but green and bright
I've watched too late; the morn is near;
Beneath the forest's skirts I rest,
It was a hundred years ago,
When beechen buds begin to swell,
Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair,
Fair insect! that, with threadlike legs spread out,
Whither, midst falling dew,
Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies:
Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines!
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
Supposed To Be Written At A Hamlet Near The Foot Of Mont Blanc.
Upon the mountain's distant head,
The night winds howled, the billows dashed
When the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam,
Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee,