Selections from the American poets / by William Cullen Bryant [electronic text]

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

INDIAN NAMES.

"How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes, and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving?"

YE say they all have pass'd away, That noble race and brave, That their light canoes have vanish'd From off the crested wave. That, mid the forests where they roam'd, There rings no hunter's shout; But their name is on your waters, Ye may not wash it out.

'Tis where Ontario's billow Like ocean's surge is curl'd, Where strong Niagara's thunders wake The echo of the world, Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tribute from the west, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their conelike cabins, That cluster'd o'er the vale, Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves Before the autumn's gale;

But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it Within her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it Amid his young renown. Connecticut hath wreath'd it Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse Through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voiceWithin his rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart. Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, Doth seal the sacred trust, Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust.

CONTENTMENT.

THINK'ST thou the steed that restless roves O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves, With wild, unbridled bound, Finds fresher pasture than the bee, On thymy bank or vernal tree, Intent to store her industry Within her waxen round?

Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn Through marble vase or sculptured urn, Affords a sweeter draught Than that which, in its native sphere, Perennial, undisturb'd and clear, Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer, And wake his grateful thought?

Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling's pomp and miser's gold, Obtains a richer prize Than he who, in his cot at rest, Finds heavenly peace, a willing guest, And bears the promise in his breast Of treasure in the skies?

THE WESTERN EMIGRANT.

AN ax rang sharply mid those forest shades Which from creation towards the skies had tower'd In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side His little son, with question and response, Beguiled the toil.

"Boy, thou hast never seen Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou The mighty river, on whose breast we sail'd, So many days, on towards the setting sun? Our own Connecticut, compared to that, Was but a creeping stream."

"Father, the brook That by our door went singing, where I launch'd My tiny boat, with my young playmates round When school was o'er, is dearer far to me Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye They are as strangers. And those little trees My mother nurtured in the garden bound Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure, Than this dark forest, shutting out the day." "What, ho! my little girl," and with light step A fairy creature hasted towards her sire, And, setting down the basket that contain'd

His noon repast, look'd upward to his face With sweet, confiding smile.

"See, dearest, see, That bright-wing'd paroquet, and hear the song Of yon gay redbird, echoing through the trees, Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear, In far New-England, such a mellow tone?" "I had a robin that did take the crumbs Each night and morning, and his chirping voice Did make me joyful as I went to tend My snowdrops. I was always laughing then In that first home. I should be happier now, Methinks, if I could find among these dells The same fresh violets."

Slow night drew on, And round the rude hut of the emigrant The wrathful spirit of the rising storm Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, And he, with head declined, sat listening long To the swoln waters of the Illinois, Dashing against their shores.

Starting, he spake: "Wife! did I see thee brush away a tear? 'Twas even so. Thy heart was with the halls Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights, Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests, Befit thee better than these rugged walls Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home." "No, no. All was so still around, methought Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal, Which, mid the church where erst we paid our vows, So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voice Dissolved the illusion."

And the gentle smile Lighting her brow, the fond caress that sooth'd Her waking infant, reassured his soul That, wheresoe'er our best affections dwell,

And strike a healthful root, is happiness. Content and placid to his rest he sank; But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought Their will with him.

Up rose the thronging mart Of his own native city; roof and spire, All glittering bright, in fancy's frostwork ray. The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neigh'd; The favourite dog came frisking round his feet, With shrill and joyous bark; familiar doors Flew open; greeting hands with his were link'd In friendship's grasp; he heard the keen debate From congregated haunts, where mind with mind Doth blend and brighten; and till morning roved Mid the loved scenery of his native land.

THE WIDOW'S CHARGE AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL.

DEAL gently, thou, whose hand has won The young bird from the nest away, Where, careless 'neath a vernal sun, She gayly caroll'd day by day:The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve, From whence her timid wing doth soar, They pensive list, at hush of eve, Yet hear her gushing song no more.

Deal gently with her: thou art dear Beyond what vestal lips have told, And like a lamb, from fountain clear, She turns confiding to the fold; She round thy sweet, domestic bower The wreaths of changeless love shall twine, Watch for thy step at vesper hour, And blend her holiest prayer with thine.

Deal gently, thou, when far away, Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, Nor let thy tender cares decay, The soul of woman lives in love; And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear Unconscious from her eyelid break, Be pitiful, and sooth the fear That man's strong heart can ne'er partake.

A mother yields her gem to thee, On thy true breast to sparkle rare; She places 'neath thy household tree The idol of her fondest care; And by thy trust to be forgiven, When judgment wakes in terror wild, By all thy treasured hopes of Heaven, Deal gently with the widow's child.