Ye build and ye brood 'neath the cottagers' eaves,
And ye sleep on the sod 'mid the bonnie green leaves.
Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake,
Ye dive in the sweet flags that shadow the lake:
Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land,
Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.
Beautiful birds! ye come thickly around, [ground;
When the bud's on the branch, and the snow's on the
Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,
And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.
Beautiful birds! how the schoolboy remembers
The warblers that chorused his holiday tune;
The Robin that chirped in the frosty Decembers,
The blackbird that whistled through flower-crowned
That schoolboy remembers his holiday ramble, [June.
When he pulled every blossom of palm he could see,
When his finger was rais'd as he stopp'd in the bramble,
With "hark! there's the cuckoo; how close he must be."
WILL. CULLEN BRYANT,
1794-18**.
AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS.
It is the spot I came to seek
My fathers' ancient burial-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot-I know it well-
Of which our old traditions tell.
For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river side;
I know the shaggy hills about,
The meadows smooth and wide
The plains, that toward the southern sky
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.
A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns so fresh and green.
Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not-I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.
The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop the yellow seed,
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.
Methinks it were a nobler sight
To see these vales in woods arrayed,
Their summits in the golden light,
Their trunks in grateful shade;
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er rills and prostrate trees below.
And then to mark the lord of all,
The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.
This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soul was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid
Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the grey chief and gifted seer
Worshipped the God of thunders here.
But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie
The weapons of his rest;
And there, in the loose sand is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.
Ah! little thought the strong and brave,
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth,
Or the young wife, that weeping gave
Her first-born to the earth-
That the pale race, who waste us now,
Among their bones should guide the plough.
They waste us-ay, like April snow,
In the warm noon we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go
Towards the setting day—
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.
But I behold a fearful sign,
To which the white men's eyes are blind. Their race, may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behindSave ruins o'er the region spread, And the white stones above the dead.
Before these fields were shorn and tilled, Full to the brim our rivers flowed; The melody of waters filled
The fresh and boundless wood:
And torrents dashed, and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.
Those grateful sounds are heard no more:
The springs are silent in the sun,
The rivers, by the blackened shore,
With lessening current run;
The realm our tribes are crushed to get,
May be a barren desert yet.
CCCXXVIII. ROCKWELL,
TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN.
Grave of waters gone to rest!
Jewel, dazzling all the main!
Father of the silver crest!
Wandering on the trackless plain,
Sleeping 'mid the wavy roar,
Sailing 'mid the angry storm,
Ploughing ocean's oozy floor,
Piling to the clouds thy form!
Wandering monument of rain,
Prison'd by the sullen north!
But to melt thy hated chain,
Is it that thou comest forth?
Wend thee to the sunny south,
To the glassy summer sea,
And the breathings of her mouth
Shall unchain and gladden thee?
Roamer in the hidden path,
'Neath the green and clouded wave,
Trampling, in thy reckless wrath,
On the lost, but cherish'd brave;
Parting love's death-link'd embrace-
Crushing beauty's skeleton-
Tell us what the hidden race
With our mournéd lost have done!
Floating Sleep! who in the sun
Art an icy coronal;
And, beneath the viewless dun,
Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall;
Shining Death upon the sea!
Wend thee to the southern main;
Bend to God thy melting knee,
Mingle with the wave again!
CCCXXIX. THOMAS NOON TALFOURD,
THE COMMON WEAL.
Never more
Let the great interests of the state depend
Upon the thousand chances that may sway
A piece of human frailty; swear to me
That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves
The means of sovereignty: our country's space,
So happy in its smallness, so compact,
Needs not the magic of a single name
Which wider regions may require to draw
Their interest into one; but, circled thus,
Like a blest family, by simple laws
May tenderly be governed-all degrees,
Not placed in dexterous balance, not combined
By bonds of parchment, or by iron clasps,
But blended into one-a lovely form
Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords
Of sympathy pervading, shall endow
With vital beauty; tint with roseate bloom
In times of happy peace, and bid to flash
With one brave impulse, if ambitious bands
Of foreign power should threaten.
CCCXXX. WILL. HOWITT, 1795-18**.
Who has not dream'd a world of bliss
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couch'd by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days?
While all around them seem'd to be
Just as in joyous infancy.
Who has not lov'd, at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You marked a sultry glimmering;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near,
Pouring an orange-scented tide
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide ?
To hear the buzzard whimpering shrill,
Hovering above you high and still ?
The twittering of the bird that dwells
Amongst the heath's delicious bells?
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade,
Insects in green and gold array'd,
The sun's gay tribes have lightly stray'd;
And sweeter sounds their humming wings
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings.
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