WILLIAM C. BRYANT. And Maquon's sylvan labors are done, He stops near his bower-his eye perceives At once, to the earth his burden he heaves, But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, But where is she who at this calm hour, She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower, It is not a time for idle grief, Nor a time for tears to flow, The horror that freezes his limbs is brief- And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 'T was early summer when Maquon's bride But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, But far in a pine grove, dark and cold, And the Indian girls, that pass way, Point out the ravisher's grave; "And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. THE sad and solemn night Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires: Her constellations come, and round the heavens, and go. Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : Through the blue fields afar, Unseen, they follow in his flaming way: And thou dost see them rise, Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, There, at morn's rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, And eve, that round the earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there; There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 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 The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. On thy unaltering blaze The half-wreck'd mariner, his compass lost, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. And, therefore, bards of old, Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. SONG OF THE STARS. WHEN the radiant morn of creation broke, And the empty realms of darkness and death Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame, From the void abyss, by myriads came, In the joy of youth, as they darted away, Through the widening wastes of space to play, And this was the song the bright ones sung. Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, Each sun with the worlds that round us roll, With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, For the source of glory uncovers his face, Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass! And the path of the gentle winds is seen, Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, Away, away!--in our blossoming bowers, Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres ! The boundless visible smile of him To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim. AUTUMN WOODS. ERE, in the northern gale, The mountains that infold In their wide sweep, the color'd landscape round, I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way. And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Where now the solemn shade, Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright ; The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, But, 'neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; Ah, 't were a lot too blest For ever in thy color'd shades to stray And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour. |