When the night storm gathers dim and dark, Thou rushest by the foundering bark, Lord of the boundless realm of air, In thy imperial name, The hearts of the bold and ardent dare Beneath the shade of thy golden wings, From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs, For thee they fought, for thee they fell, Thou wert, through an age of death and fears, Till the gathered rage of a thousand years And then a deluge of wrath it came, And the nations shook with dread; And it swept the earth till its fields were flame, And where was then thy fearless flight? To the lands that caught the setting light, There, on the silent and lonely shore, For ages, I watched alone, And the world, in its darkness, asked no more But then came a bold and hardy few, I caught afar the wandering crew; I wheeled around the welcome bark, And now that bold and hardy few And danger and doubt I have led them through, And over their bright and glancing arms, With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms, Salmon River.*-BRAINARD. 'Tis a sweet stream; and so, 'tis true, are all That, undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall, Pursue their way By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood, But yet there's something in its humble rank, There's much in its wild history, that teems Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain; And many a quiver, Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill, *This river enters into the Connecticut at East Haddam. Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still, Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made Here Philip came, and Miantonimo, And asked about their fortunes long ago, And here the black fox roved, that howled and shook Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, And his soft peltry, stripped and dressed, to wear, Transfer him to a box. Such are the tales they tell. 'Tis hard to rhyme That few have heard of; but it is a theme And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, To the Evening Wind.-BRYANT.* SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou *The Talisman has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of its publication; but this, we had almost said it is the sweetest thing in the language. Not in any one of the Souvenirs, either English or American, has there ever appeared a page of such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has all the characteristics of Bryant's style-his chaste elegance, both in thought and expression,-ornament enough, but not in profusion or display,-imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiarly soothing, select and melodious language,-harmony in the flow of the stanza, gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy.-ED. Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse Summoning from the innumerable boughs The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And softly part his curtains to allow Go-but the circle of eternal change, That is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, The Grave of the Indian Chief.—PERCIVAL. THEY laid the corse of the wild and brave On the sweet, fresh earth of the new day grave, On the gentle hill, where wild weeds waved, And flowers and grass were flourishing They laid within the peaceful bed, Close by the Indian chieftain's head, His bow and arrows; and they said, That he had found new hunting grounds, Where bounteous Nature only tills The willing soil; and o'er whose hills, And down beside the shady rills, The hero roams eternally. And these fair isles to the westward lie, And song and dance move endlessly. They told of the feats of his dog and gun, They told of the deeds his arm had done, And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones, And since the chieftain here has slept, Escape from Winter.--PERCIVAL. O, HAD I the wings of a swallow, I'd fly Where the roses are blossoming all the year long; |