WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 1794. 1825. O FAIREST of the rural maids! Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, The twilight of the trees and rocks Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene The forest depths, by foot unpressed, THE FUTURE LIFE. How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps When all of thee that time could wither sleeps For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? The love that lived through all the stormy past, Shall it expire with life, and be no more? A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell 1837. Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same? Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, Thy fit companion in that land of bliss? Affections are as thoughts to her, The freshness of young flowers; The image of themselves by turns, Of her bright face one glance will trace And of her voice in echoing hearts When death is nigh my latest sigh I fill this cup to one made up A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. |