A Bryant Alphabet.
Alike, beneath thine eye,
The deeds of darkness and of light are done;
High towards the star-lit sky
Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun.
Hymn to the North Star.
Beneath the forest’s skirt I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the thread-like foliage sigh.
The West Wind.
Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence
Came the deep murmur of its throng of men;
And as its grateful odors met thy sense,
They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.
To a Mosquito.
Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air;
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Of the chariot of God, in the thunder-cloud!
The Hurricane.
Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared
The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet,
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits.
The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus.
Far back in the ages,
The plow with wreaths was crowned;
The hands of kings and sages
Entwined the chaplet round.
Ode for an Agricultural Celebration.
Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
To weave the dance that measures the years;
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent
To the furthest wall of the firmament.
Song of the Stars.
Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock
Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock;
While those who seek to slay thy children, hold
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold.
Hymn of the Waldenses.
I know where the timid fawn abides
In the depths of the shaded dell,
Where the leaves are broad, and the thicket hides
From the eye of the hunter well.
An Indian Story.
Journeying, in long serenity, away
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee!
October.
Knit they the gentle ties which long
These Sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong
For idle hands in sport to tear?
Not Yet.
Lament who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly;
I sigh not over vanished years,
But watch the years that hasten by.
The Lapse of Time.
Might but a little part,
A wandering breath, of that high melody
Descend into my heart,
And change it till it be
Transformed and swallowed up, O love, in thee!
The Life of the Blessed.
Not from the sands or cloven rocks,
Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;
Nor earth, within her bosom, locks
Thy dark unfathomed wells below.
To the River Arve.
Oh, deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.
“Blessed are they that Mourn.”
Peace to the just man’s memory; let it grow
Greener with years, and blossom through the flight
Of ages.
The Ages.
——the great deep
Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air
Above a furnace.
Sella.
Raise, then, the hymn to Death. Deliverer!
God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed
And crush the oppressor.
Hymn to Death.
Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?
To a Waterfall.
Thou unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain
And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.
The Past.
Upon the mountain’s distant head
With trackless snows forever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
Late shines the day’s departing light.
“Upon the Mountain’s Distant Head.”
Violets spring in the soft May shower;
There, in the summer breezes, wave
Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.
The Maiden’s Sorrow.
Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers
Offered where crowds in reverent worship come
Or softly breathed amid the tender cares
And loving inmates of thy quiet home.
The Life that Is.
Alexis calls me cruel;
The rifted crags that hold
The gathered ice of winter,
He says, are not more cold.
Song from the Spanish.
Yet these sweet sounds of the early season
And these fair sights of its sunny days,
Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.
An Invitation to the Country.
Leave Zelinda altogether,
Whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest
Forget whom thou dost wrong.
The Alcayde of Molina.