Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

O 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 healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour comes like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pail,
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-
Comes a still voice: Yet a few days and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements-

To be a brother to the insensible rock,

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The cak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone; nor could'st thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world,-with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. 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,

[ocr errors]

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. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep - the dead reign there alone.
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 favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men-
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side

By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

HERE appears to exist a greater desire to live long than to live well.

THER

THOMAS HOOD.

Measure by

man's desires, he cannot live long enough; measure by his good deeds, and he has not lived long enough; measure by his evil deeds, and he has lived too long.

I.-SOLITUDE.

TWO SONNETS.

O, child of sorrow, to the lonely wood,
And company with trees, and rocks and hills,
With creeping vines, with flow'rs, and gentle
rills,

That seem themselves to feel the musing mood,
And feed with thought the charming solitude.
There is a spirit in the groves that fills

The heart with such an influence as steals
The outward sense, and leaves the soul imbued
With pow'r to hold communion with the dead;
And ministering angels here may tell
Some happy story of the spirit home:

Some lov'd one gone, for whom the heart has bled,
May whisper thoughts the sad unrest to quell,
And point to realms of joy and bid thee come.

Ο

II.-DESPAIR.

Death in Life! O grave where grim Despair Hath buried hope, and ev'ry pleasing dream Of what the years may bring! The fitful gleam Of light that lingers yet, but points me where A glory might have been; and shapes of fear Look through the gloom, till my surroundings seem The work of some malignant thing, supreme O'er all my pow'rs to plan, to strive, to bear. Ere yet high noon of days, bereft of strength To toil for those committed to my hand, And doomed to see no more a smiling sun, I find that all is bitterness at length. Yet, God hath care of us; here let me stand, And say, with steadfast heart, "His will be done."

ED. PORTER THOMPSON.

[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
« AnteriorContinuar »