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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Long
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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.
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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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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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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.
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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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So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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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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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.
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.
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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot upon its grassy mold The pur0ple oak-leaf falls the birchen bough drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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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.
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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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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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Showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.
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The right to discuss freely and openly, by speech, by the pen, by the press, all political questions, and to examine the animadvert upon all political institutions is a right so clear and certain, so interwoven with our other liberties, so necessary, in fact, to their existence, that without it we must fall into despotism and anarchy.
William C. Bryant