WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.— 1794-1878.
BY REV. SILVANUS HAYWARD.
Poet, in whose loving heart
Nature fondly set apart
For herself a temple rare,
Shrine of all things pure and fair!
There she placed her royal seat,
And her chorus round her feet
Ever sang their sweetest strains,
Echoes from Elysian plains.
Thanatopsis calm and fair
Marched in stately beauty there.
There the maples on the hill,
"Warbling waters" of the rill;
Sporting by its "oozy brink"
Thrasher sweet and bob-o-link;
Flora's gems in emerald set,
Gentian blue and violet,
Windflower, lodged in sunny nook,
And the "sunflower by the brook;"
When their brightness passed away;
Sweet he sang of their decay.
There he saw "the ages" press
Forward in their course to bless.
There the "unrelenting past"
Knotted "fetters, sure and fast;"
But he broke their ruthless power,
Sang of Truth's triumphant hour,
When it "crushed to earth shall rise,"
Be re-knit Affection's ties;—
Then with unabated breath
Raised the noble "Hymn to Death."
Calmly waiting by that gate,
Which his song did celebrate,
When the hinges slowly turned,
Flashing forth to glory burned,
And its "radiant beauty" shed
In an aureole round his head,
While a voice was heard to fall
Like a herald's trumpet call:—
"Victor, lay thine armor down,
And receive the laurel crown!"
With a look of "sweet surprise"
Stealing from his earnest eyes,
Like a weary child he seems,
"And lies down to pleasant dreams."
