Poems / William Cullen Bryant [electronic text]

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Alas, I little thought that the stern power Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must cease— For he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off Untimely! when thy reason in its strength, Ripened by years of toil and studious search

And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days. And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have To offer at thy grave—this—and the hope To copy thy example, and to leave A name of which the wretched shall not think As of an enemy's, whom they forgive As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou Whose early guidance trained my infant steps— Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep Of death is over, and a happier life Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. Now thou art not—and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance—he who bears False witness—he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow—he who spreads abroad Polluted hands in mockery of prayer, Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look On what is written, yet I blot not out The desultory numbers—let them stand. The record of an idle revery.