Poems by William Cullen Bryant
page 45 of 294 (15%)
page 45 of 294 (15%)
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Climbest and streamest thy white splendours from mid-sky.
Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird. They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won; They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun; Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air. So, with the glories of the dying day, Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, The memory of the brave who passed away Tenderly mingled;--fitting hour to muse On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead. For ages, on the silent forests here, Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods. |
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