Poems by William Cullen Bryant
page 70 of 294 (23%)
page 70 of 294 (23%)
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But where is she who, at this calm hour,
Ever watched his coming to see? She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower; He calls--but he only hears on the flower The hum of the laden bee. It is not a time for idle grief, Nor a time for tears to flow; The horror that freezes his limbs is brief-- He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf Of darts made sharp for the foe. And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, Where he bore the maiden away; And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast that hurries the vapour and sleet O'er the wild November day. 'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride Was stolen away from his door; But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And the grape is black on the cabin side,-- And she smiles at his hearth once more. But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, Where the yellow leaf falls not, Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, In the deepest gloom of the spot. |
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