Amid the uproar of the storm, And by the lightning's sharp, red glare, Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form; His axe glanced quick in air: Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge? There's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's edge. THE SPECTRE HORSE. HE's now upon the spectre's back, With rein of silk and curb of gold. 'Tis fearful speed!—the rein is slack Within his senseless hold; Upborne by an unseen power, he onward rides, Yet touches not the shadow-beast he strides. He goes with speed; he goes with dread! And now they're on the hanging steep! And, now! the living and the dead, They 'll make the horrid leap! The horse stops short;- his feet are on the verge. He stands, like marble, high above the surge. And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, With red, hot spars, and crackling flame. From hull to gallant, nothing's gone. She burns, and yet 's the same! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night, On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light. Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. He ne'er again will curse and ban. How fast he moves the lip! And yet he does not speak, or make a sound! WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THANATOPSIS. 187 To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language: for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around Earth, and her waters, and the depths of air WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beanty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. THOU blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night, Thou comest not when violets lean Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall · A flower from its cerulean wall. 189 I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart. THE BATTLE-FIELD. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Now all is calm and fresh and still; No solemn host goes trailing by Men start not at the battle-cry, - Soon rested those who fought; but thou A friendless warfare! lingering long Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, not. yet faint thou Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, Like those who fell in battle here! Another hand the sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. FROM "THE RIVULET." AND I shall sleep; and on thy side, The patter of his little feet, And graver looks, serene and high, The bow, the band, shall fall to dust; Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, Shall break these clods, a form of light, THE BURIAL OF LOVE. Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown; Bring forest blooms of name unknown; Bring budding sprays from wood and wild, To strew the bier of Love, the child. Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, And make his grave where violets hide, But we shall mourn him long, and miss ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. [1809-1861.] THE SLEEP. Of all the thoughts of God that are What would we give to our beloved? The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep; "He giveth His beloved sleep." What do we give to our beloved? "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away |