William Cullen Bryant

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Page 27 - So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. 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.
Page 103 - God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast...
Page 44 - Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Page 28 - The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, - the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods - rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks 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.
Page 80 - That life was happy ; every day he gave Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; For a sick fancy made him not her slave, To mock him with her phantom miseries. No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. And I am glad that he has lived thus long, And glad that he has gone to his reward ; Nor can I deem that nature did him wrong, Softly to disengage the vital cord.
Page 161 - Twice wert thou given me ; once in thy fair prime, Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met, And all the blossoms of that hopeful time Clustered and glowed where'er thy steps were set. And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again Given back to fervent prayers and yearnings strong, From the drear realm of sickness and of pain When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long.
Page 77 - I BROKE the spell that held me long, The dear, dear witchery of song. I said, the poet's idle lore Shall waste my prime of years no more, For Poetry, though heavenly born, Consorts with poverty and scorn. I broke the spell — nor deemed its power Could fetter me another hour. Ah, thoughtless ! how could I forget Its causes were around me yet ? For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, Was nature's everlasting smile.
Page 208 - Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb. These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene...
Page 123 - The elements of poetry lie in natural objects, in the vicissitudes of human life, in the emotions of the human heart, and the relations of man to man. He who can present them in combinations and lights which at once affect the mind with a deep sense of their truth and beauty, is the poet for his own age and the ages that succeed it.

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