And dance and song and generous dower In the sweet safety of the shore, Freely the golden spray be shed For him whose heart, when night comes down On the close alleys of the town, Is faint for lack of bread. In chill roof chambers, bleak and bare, Or the damp cellar's stifling air, She who now sees, in mute despair, Shall feel the dews of gladness start Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till! Fill the rich ears that shade the mould Strew silently the fruitful seed, As softly o'er the tilth ye tread, The mystic loaf that crowns the board, In memory of the bitter death Of Him who taught at Nazareth, His followers are met, And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet, As of the Holy One they think, The glory of whose rising, yet Makes bright the grave's mysterious brink. Brethren, the sower's task is done. Now let the dark brown mould be spread, And leave it to the kindly care Of the still earth and brooding air. To wake with warmth and nurse with dew, Oh blessed harvest yet to be! Abide thou with the love that keeps, In its warm bosom, tenderly, The life which wakes and that which sleeps. Light whisperings with the winds of May, Then, as thy garners give thee forth, Roads wind and rivers flow. The ancient East shall welcome thee To mighty marts beyond the sea, And they who dwell where palm groves sound To summer winds the whole year round, Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore, THE SNOW-SHOWER. STAND here by my side and turn, I pray, And dark and silent the water lies; See how in a living swarm they come From the chambers beyond that misty veil; Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd All drowned in the dark and silent lake. And some, as on tender wings they glide Come clinging along their unsteady way; Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; To lie in the dark and silent lake! I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; They turn to me in sorrowful thought; All lost in the dark and silent lake. Yet look again, for the clouds divide; A gleam of blue on the water lies; A sunbeam falls from the opening skies. At rest in the dark and silent lake. The following is perhaps the best of Bryant's few attempts at lyric poetry of the patriotic sort: OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. LAY down the axe; fling by the spade; The rifle and the bayonet blade For arms like yours were fitter now; Our country calls; away! away! To where the blood-stream blots the green. Strike to defend the gentlest sway That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts-see, Spring the armed foes that haunt her track They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back. Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, Your woodcraft for the field of fight. His serried ranks shall reel before The arm that lays the panther low. And ye, who breast the mountain storm A bulwark that no foe can break. And ye, whose homes are by her grand Come from the depth of her green land, Have swelled them over bank and bourne With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn. And ye, who throng, beside the deep, On his long murmuring marge of sand Few, few were they whose swords of old Won the fair land in which we dwell; |