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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!

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Still
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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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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