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Ah, never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of the brave, Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save!

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Never
Save
Life
Courage
Blood
Shall
Gush
Land
Fought
Forget
Soil
Upon
Warm
Hope
Brave

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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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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
William C. Bryant
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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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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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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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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.
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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
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The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.
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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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When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.
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A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night.
William C. Bryant
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Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
William C. Bryant
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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 stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.
William C. Bryant
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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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