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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Reign
Slaves
Tyrants
Slave
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Virtue
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Cannot
Tyrant
Take
Servitude
Dwell

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Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
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Follow thou thy choice.
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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Come when the rains Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps And the broad arching portals of the grove Welcome thy entering.
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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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All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
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Lay down the axe fling by the spade Leave in its track the toiling plough The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.
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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.
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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! In the soft light of these serenest skies From the broad highland region, black with pines, Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold In rosy flushes on the virgin gold.
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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
William C. Bryant
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The breath of springtime at this twilight hour Comes through the gathering glooms, And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower Into my silent rooms.
William C. Bryant
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
William C. Bryant
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.
William C. Bryant
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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!
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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.
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