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Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant
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And far across the land is spread,
Among the hunter tribes, his fame;
Men name the bowyer-chief with dread
Whose arrows never miss their aim.
See next his broad-roofed cabin rise
On a smooth river's pleasant side,
And she who has the brightest eyes
Of all the tribe becomes his bride.
A year has passed; the forest sleeps
In early autumn's sultry glow;
Onetho, on the mountain-steeps,
Is hunting with that trusty bow.
But they, who by the river dwell,
See the dim vapors thickening o'er
Long mountain-range and severing dell,
And hear the thunder's sullen roar.
Still darker grows the spreading cloud
From which the booming thunders sound,
And stoops and hangs a shadowy shroud
Above Onetho's hunting-ground.
Then they who, from the river-vale,
Are gazing on the distant storm,
See in the mists that ride the gale
Dim shadows of the human form —
Tall warriors, plumed, with streaming hair
And lifted arms that bear the bow,
And send athwart the murky air
The arrowy lightnings to and fro.
Loud is the tumult of an hour —
Crash of torn boughs and howl of blast,
And thunder-peal and pelting shower,
And then the storm is overpast.
Where is Onetho? what delays
His coming? why should he remain
Among the plashy woodland ways,
Swoln brooks and boughs that drip with rain?
He comes not, and the younger men
Go forth to search the forest round.
They track him to a mountain-glen,
And find him lifeless on the ground.
The goodly bow that was his pride
Is gone, but there the arrows lie;
And now they know the death he died,
Slain by the lightnings of the sky.
They bear him thence in awe and fear
Back to the vale with stealthy tread;
There silently, from far and near,
The warriors gather round the dead.
But in their homes the women bide;
Unseen they sit and weep apart,
And, in her bower, Onetho's bride
Is sobbing with a broken heart.
They lay in earth their bowyer-chief,
And at his side their hands bestow
His dreaded battle-axe and sheaf
Of arrows, but without a bow.
"Too soon he died; it is not well" —
The old men murmured, standing nigh —
"That we, who in the forest dwell,
Should wield the weapons of the sky."
A LIFETIME
I sit in the early twilight,
And, through the gathering shade,
I look on the fields around me
Where yet a child I played.
And I peer into the shadows,
Till they seem to pass away,
And the fields and their tiny brooklet
Lie clear in the light of day.
A delicate child and slender,
With lock of light-brown hair,
From knoll to knoll is leaping
In the breezy summer air.
He stoops to gather blossoms
Where the running waters shine;
And I look on him with wonder,
His eyes are so like mine.
I look till the fields and brooklet
Swim like a vision by,
And a room in a lowly dwelling
Among the hunter tribes, his fame;
Men name the bowyer-chief with dread
Whose arrows never miss their aim.
See next his broad-roofed cabin rise
On a smooth river's pleasant side,
And she who has the brightest eyes
Of all the tribe becomes his bride.
A year has passed; the forest sleeps
In early autumn's sultry glow;
Onetho, on the mountain-steeps,
Is hunting with that trusty bow.
But they, who by the river dwell,
See the dim vapors thickening o'er
Long mountain-range and severing dell,
And hear the thunder's sullen roar.
Still darker grows the spreading cloud
From which the booming thunders sound,
And stoops and hangs a shadowy shroud
Above Onetho's hunting-ground.
Then they who, from the river-vale,
Are gazing on the distant storm,
See in the mists that ride the gale
Dim shadows of the human form —
Tall warriors, plumed, with streaming hair
And lifted arms that bear the bow,
And send athwart the murky air
The arrowy lightnings to and fro.
Loud is the tumult of an hour —
Crash of torn boughs and howl of blast,
And thunder-peal and pelting shower,
And then the storm is overpast.
Where is Onetho? what delays
His coming? why should he remain
Among the plashy woodland ways,
Swoln brooks and boughs that drip with rain?
He comes not, and the younger men
Go forth to search the forest round.
They track him to a mountain-glen,
And find him lifeless on the ground.
The goodly bow that was his pride
Is gone, but there the arrows lie;
And now they know the death he died,
Slain by the lightnings of the sky.
They bear him thence in awe and fear
Back to the vale with stealthy tread;
There silently, from far and near,
The warriors gather round the dead.
But in their homes the women bide;
Unseen they sit and weep apart,
And, in her bower, Onetho's bride
Is sobbing with a broken heart.
They lay in earth their bowyer-chief,
And at his side their hands bestow
His dreaded battle-axe and sheaf
Of arrows, but without a bow.
"Too soon he died; it is not well" —
The old men murmured, standing nigh —
"That we, who in the forest dwell,
Should wield the weapons of the sky."
A LIFETIME
I sit in the early twilight,
And, through the gathering shade,
I look on the fields around me
Where yet a child I played.
And I peer into the shadows,
Till they seem to pass away,
And the fields and their tiny brooklet
Lie clear in the light of day.
A delicate child and slender,
With lock of light-brown hair,
From knoll to knoll is leaping
In the breezy summer air.
He stoops to gather blossoms
Where the running waters shine;
And I look on him with wonder,
His eyes are so like mine.
I look till the fields and brooklet
Swim like a vision by,
And a room in a lowly dwelling
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