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But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
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Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul!
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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