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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
Else
River
Stills
Hills
Weedy
Still
Solitude
Tiber
Thou
Sounded
Rivers
Stream
Ancient
Rome
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Centuries
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Ah, passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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The sad and solemn night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires The glorious host of light walk the dark hemisphere till she retires All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
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That make the meadows green and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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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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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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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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Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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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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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.
William C. Bryant
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On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh The rocks moan wildly as it passes by Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, And not a flower adorns the dreary land.
William C. Bryant
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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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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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[Thanatopsis] was written in 1817, when Bryant was 23. Had he died then, the world would have thought it had lost a great poet. But he lived on.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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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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