After a Tempest

THE day had been a day of wind and storm;--

The wind was laid, the storm was overpast,--

And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm

Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last.

I stood upon the upland slope and cast

My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene,

Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast,

And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green,

With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between.

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around,

Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred,

Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground,

Was shaken by the flight of startled bird;

For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard

About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung

And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward;

To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding clung,

And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung.

And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry

Flew many a glittering insect here and there,

And darted up and down the butterfly,

That seemed a living blossom of the air.

The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where

The violent rain had pent them; in the way

Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair;

The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay,

And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play.

It was a scene of peace--and, like a spell,

Did that serene and golden sunlight fall

Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell,

And precipice upspringing like a wall,

And glassy river and white waterfall,

And happy living things that trod the bright

And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all,

On many a lovely valley, out of sight,

Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light.

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene

An emblem of the peace that yet shall be,

When, o'er earth's continents and isles between,

The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea,

And married nations dwell in harmony;

When millions, crouching in the dust to one,

No more shall beg their lives on bended knee,

Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun

The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done.

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers

And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast,

The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers

And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last

The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past.

Lo, the clouds roll away--they break--they fly,

And, like the glorious light of summer, cast

O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky,

On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.

William Cullen Bryant

Summer Wind

IT is a sultry day; the sun has drank

The dew that lay upon the morning grass,

There is no rustling in the lofty elm

That canopies my dwelling, and its shade

Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint

And interrupted murmur of the bee,

Settling on the sick flowers, and then again

Instantly on the wing. The plants around

Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize

Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops

Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.

But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,

With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,

As if the scortching heat and dazzling light

Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,

Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven;--

Their bases on the mountains--their white tops

Shining in the far ether--fire the air

With a reflected radiance, and make turn

The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie

Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,

Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,

Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind

That still delays its coming. Why so slow,

Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth

Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves

He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,

The pine is bending his proud top, and now,

Among the nearer groves, chesnut and oak

Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!

Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in wives!

The deep distressful silence of the scene

Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds

And universal motion. He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,

And bearing on the fragrance; and he brings

Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,

And soun of swaying branches, and the voice

Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs

Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,

By the road-side and the borders of the brook,

Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves

Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew

Were on them yet, and silver waters break

Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

William Cullen Bryant

The Constellations

O CONSTELLATIONS of the early night,

That sparkled brighter as the twilight died,

And made the darkness glorious! I have seen

Your rays grow dim upon the horizon's edge,

And sink behind the mountains. I have seen

The great Orion, with his jewelled belt,

That large-limbed warrior of the skies, go down

Into the gloom. Beside him sank a crowd

Of shining ones. I look in vain to find

The group of sister-stars, which mothers love

To show their wondering babes, the gentle Seven.

Along the desert space mine eyes in vain

Seek the resplendent cressets which the Twins

Uplifted in their ever-youthful hands.

The streaming tresses of the Egyptian Queen

Spangle the heavens no more. The Virgin trails

No more her glittering garments through the blue.

Gone! all are gone! and the forsaken Night,

With all her winds, in all her dreary wastes,

Sighs that they shine upon her face no more.

No only here and there a little star

Looks forth alone. Ah me! I know them not,

Those dim successors of the numberless host

That filled the heavenly fields, and flung to earth

Their guivering fires. And now the middle watch

Betwixt the eve and morn is past, and still

The darkness gains upon the sky, and still

It closes round my way. Shall, then, the Night,

Grow starless in her later hours? Have these

No train of flaming watchers, that shall mark

Their coming and farewell? O Sons of Light!

Have ye then left me ere the dawn of day

To grope along my journey sad and faint?

Thus I complained, and from the darkness round

A voice replied--was it indeed a voice,

Or seeming accents of a waking dream

Heard by the inner ear? But thus it said:

O Traveller of the Night! thine eyes are dim

With watching; and the mists, that chill the vale

Down which thy feet are passing, hide from view

The ever-burning stars. It is thy sight

That is so dark, and not the heaens. Thine eyes,

Were they but clear, would see a fiery host

Above thee; Hercules, with flashing mace,

The Lyre with silver cords, the Swan uppoised

On gleaming wings, the Dolphin gliding on

With glistening scales, and that poetic steed,

With beamy mane, whose hoof struck out from earth

The fount of Hippocrene, and many more,

Fair clustered splendors, with whose rays the Night

Shall close her march in glory, ere she yield,

To the young Day, the great earth steeped in dew.

So spake the monitor, and I perceived

How vain were my repinings, and my thought

Went backward to the vanished years and all

The good and great who came and passed with them,

And knew that ever would the years to come

Bring with them, in their course, the good and great,

Lights of the world, though, to my clouded sight,

Their rays might seem but dim, or reach me not.

William Cullen Bryant