Poems by William Cullen Bryant

I have been asked to consent that an edition of my poems should be published at Dessau in Germany, solely for circulation on the continent of Europe. To this request I have the more readily yielded, inasmuch as the reputation enjoyed by the gentleman under whose inspection the volume will pass through the press, assures me that the edition will be faithfully and minutely accurate. New York , November 2, 1853.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

When to the common rest that crowns our days, Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays His silver temples in their last repose; When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows, And blights the fairest; when our bitter tears Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, We think on what they were, with many fears Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years:
And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by,— When lived the honoured sage whose death we wept, And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, And beat in many a heart that long has slept,— Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped— Are holy; and high-dreaming bards have told Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept, Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed cold— Those pure and happy times—the golden days of old.
Peace to the just man's memory,—let it grow Greener with years, and blossom through the flight Of ages; let the mimic canvas show His calm benevolent features; let the light Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight Of all but heaven, and in the book of fame, The glorious record of his virtues write, And hold it up to men, and bid them claim A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame.
But oh, despair not of their fate who rise To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw! Lo! the same shaft by which the righteous dies, Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy's law, And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth, Such as the sternest age of virtue saw, Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth From the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth.