Poems by William Cullen Bryant
page 92 of 294 (31%)
page 92 of 294 (31%)
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To where the sun of Andalusia shines
On his own olive-groves and vines, Or the soft lights of Italy's bright sky In smiles upon her ruins lie. But I would woo the winds to let us rest O'er Greece long fettered and oppressed, Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes From the old battle-fields and tombs, And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe Have dealt the swift and desperate blow, And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke Has touched its chains, and they are broke. Ay, we would linger till the sunset there Should come, to purple all the air, And thou reflect upon the sacred ground The ruddy radiance streaming round. Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made! Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade. The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold, Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold: The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou mayst frown In the dark heaven when storms come down; And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye Miss thee, for ever, from the sky. THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.° |
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