ΤΟ

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

FROM thy calm eye what soft light streameth through, Like sunbeams, in the still autumnal days,

When golden leaves drop through the airy haze, Into the brooks of blue.

Upon thy crown thy Lear-like locks are hoar,
Blanched as the wing of sea-rocked albatross;
Thy winter beard, white as the snow-filled moss
Hung on a Sycamore.

Fair as the priceless fleece that Jason sheared
From his enchanted, genii-guarded flocks,
For whose possession Argo dared the rocks,
Is that brave silver beard.

Clasped like a marble column by a vine

Thy crowning locks do cluster thick and strong, And round thy brow the myrtle buds of song And deathless laurels twine.

Peace to life's sunny afternoon,
Thou seer and poet patriarch;

Thou shalt walk through Death's valley dark
As through the night the moon.

As when of yore the bard of Samos smote
Through the deep darkness, and there came
Up from his ancient harp of song a flame,
And deep immortal note,

As if the earth were but as one broad lyre,
And that great master of poetic lords
Swept strong its tense drawn cords,
Which flashed electric fire!

So thou hast caught his echoed strain,
Borne from the mighty Grecian's grave,
O'er the Ægean's sapphire wave

And wide Atlantic main

Where the black forest melts in fields of gold,

Where great white fleets rise on the unknown seas,

And present years out-run old centuries,

A land whose fate 's untold.

TO WILLIAM CULLEN

BRYANT.

149

Chaucer of this new found home

Of Freedom, where Liberty doth shine, As erst she shone beyond the Apennine Upon the domes of Rome,

Upon thy head a benison!

Thou, who through our solemn woods hast walked, And with great Nature's mystic spirit talked, And sung in unison.

Long live; but when thy day doth come,
May it be like those sweet autumnal eves
Which whisper by the dropping leaves,
And bear thee gently home.

Titian, when seeing his eightieth winter glide,
Still was the master; so be thy charming Lyre,
Sweetest to the ending! and as he did expire,
Yea, at the canvas died!

When, sun-like, through the western trees,
Thy form shall slowly sink away and fade,
Still shall thy spirit throw amid the shade

A moonlight o'er our memories.

TO ADA.

BONNIE lassie, decked in beauty,
Moulded by the hand of Grace,
All that's good and gentle cluster
Round thy maiden form and face;
Locks of gold, the shining, flaxen,
Like Minerva's fleecy clue,
Woven of the fibrous sunbeams,
When autumnal skies are blue;
Locks which wooing winds, delighted,
With their unseen fingers shake,
As the trembling shadows waver
Of the willows on a lake,
Swaying with the graceful motion
Of the yellow harvest grain,
As its undulating ocean

Sinks and swells along the plain;

Locks Diana's self might envy,

Or Narcissus by the brook,

Curling, clustering, like the ringlets
Rich with sweets Hyperion shook.
Thou art cherished by Minerva,

From her distaff came thy locks,
Like the golden fleece which Argo
Won from Jason's magic flocks;
Ringlets like the flax so tender,
Which the Fatal Sisters spin,
Or the golden hair of Lilith,
Adam's bride before his sin,
With which if she twined a lover,

With those locks around his neck,
Joy's wild ecstatic dream was over,

Hope's lamp fell shivered to a wreck! Cheeks which like the bloom of apples Blend their leaves of snow and red, Or the butterfly that dapples

With crimson wings the lily's head, Lips like pomegranates so scarlet, Moist with morning's dewy beads, Which like that fruit display when parted, Teeth which shame its pearly seeds;

Eyes as blue as flax in blossom,

Where the noonday fairies hide,

Blue more delicate than heaven,
Blue more bright than ocean's tide.

All in all, thy charms so tender
Make thee more than angels are,

* Talmud.