William Cullen Bryant

  • Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
      Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
    And fiery hearts and armèd hands
      Encountered in the battle-cloud.

    Ah! never shall the land forget
      How gushed the life-blood of her brave,—
    Gushed, warm with hope...

  • OUR 1 band is few, but true and tried,
      Our leader frank and bold;
    The British soldier trembles
      When Marion’s name is told.
    Our fortress is the good greenwood,
      Our tent the cypress-tree;
    We know the forest round us,
      As seamen know...

  •   HERE are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines,
    That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground
    Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up
    Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet
    To linger here, among the flitting birds,
    And leaping...

  • [1861]
    lay down the axe, fling by the spade;
      Leave in its track the toiling plough;
    The rifle and the bayonet-blade
      For arms like yours were fitter now;
    And let the hands that ply the pen
      Quit the light task, and learn to wield

  • O Mother of a mighty race,
    Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!
    The elder dames, thy haughty peers,
    Admire and hate thy blooming years;
          With words of shame
    And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

    For on thy cheeks the glow is spread

  •   LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh,
    I know thy breath in the burning sky!
    And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,
    For the coming of the hurricane!

      And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales,
    Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails.

  • Let me move slowly through the street,
      Filled with an ever-shifting train,
    Amid the sound of steps that beat
      The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

    How fast the flitting figures come!
      The mild, the fierce, the stony face——
    Some bright with...

  • Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
      Near to the nest of his little dame,
    Over the mountain-side or mead,
      Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
        Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
        Spink, spank, spink;
    Snug and safe is that nest of ours,

  •     WHITHER, midst falling dew,
    While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
    Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
        Thy solitary way?

        Vainly the fowler’s eye
    Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
    As, darkly...

  • 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
    O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
    Or columbines, in...