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Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant
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When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long.
Now may we keep thee from the balmy air
And radiant walks of heaven a little space,
Where He, who went before thee to prepare
For His meek followers, shall assign thy place.
Castellamare, May, 1858.
SONG
"THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS."
These prairies glow with flowers,
These groves are tall and fair,
The sweet lay of the mocking-bird
Rings in the morning air;
And yet I pine to see
My native hill once more,
And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp
Beside its cottage-door.
And he, for whom I left
My native hill and brook,
Alas, I sometimes think I trace
A coldness in his look!
If I have lost his love,
I know my heart will break;
And haply, they I left for him
Will sorrow for my sake.
A SICK-BED
Long hast thou watched my bed,
And smoothed the pillow oft
For this poor, aching head,
With touches kind and soft.
Oh! smooth it yet again,
As softly as before;
Once – only once – and then
I need thy hand no more.
Yet here I may not stay,
Where I so long have lain,
Through many a restless day
And many a night of pain.
But bear me gently forth
Beneath the open sky,
Where, on the pleasant earth,
Till night the sunbeams lie.
There, through the coming days,
I shall not look to thee
My weary side to raise,
And shift it tenderly.
There sweetly shall I sleep;
Nor wilt thou need to bring
And put to my hot lip
Cool water from the spring;
Nor wet the kerchief laid
Upon my burning brow;
Nor from my eyeballs shade
The light that wounds them now;
Nor watch that none shall tread,
With noisy footstep, nigh;
Nor listen by my bed,
To hear my faintest sigh,
And feign a look of cheer,
And words of comfort speak,
Yet turn to hide the tear
That gathers on thy cheek.
Beside me, where I rest,
Thy loving hands will set
The flowers that please me best —
Moss-rose and violet.
Then to the sleep I crave
Resign me, till I see
The face of Him who gave
His life for thee and me.
Yet, with the setting sun,
Come, now and then, at eve,
And think of me as one
For whom thou shouldst not grieve;
Who, when the kind release
From sin and suffering came,
Passed to the appointed peace
In murmuring thy name.
Leave at my side a space,
Where thou shalt come, at last,
Now may we keep thee from the balmy air
And radiant walks of heaven a little space,
Where He, who went before thee to prepare
For His meek followers, shall assign thy place.
Castellamare, May, 1858.
SONG
"THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS."
These prairies glow with flowers,
These groves are tall and fair,
The sweet lay of the mocking-bird
Rings in the morning air;
And yet I pine to see
My native hill once more,
And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp
Beside its cottage-door.
And he, for whom I left
My native hill and brook,
Alas, I sometimes think I trace
A coldness in his look!
If I have lost his love,
I know my heart will break;
And haply, they I left for him
Will sorrow for my sake.
A SICK-BED
Long hast thou watched my bed,
And smoothed the pillow oft
For this poor, aching head,
With touches kind and soft.
Oh! smooth it yet again,
As softly as before;
Once – only once – and then
I need thy hand no more.
Yet here I may not stay,
Where I so long have lain,
Through many a restless day
And many a night of pain.
But bear me gently forth
Beneath the open sky,
Where, on the pleasant earth,
Till night the sunbeams lie.
There, through the coming days,
I shall not look to thee
My weary side to raise,
And shift it tenderly.
There sweetly shall I sleep;
Nor wilt thou need to bring
And put to my hot lip
Cool water from the spring;
Nor wet the kerchief laid
Upon my burning brow;
Nor from my eyeballs shade
The light that wounds them now;
Nor watch that none shall tread,
With noisy footstep, nigh;
Nor listen by my bed,
To hear my faintest sigh,
And feign a look of cheer,
And words of comfort speak,
Yet turn to hide the tear
That gathers on thy cheek.
Beside me, where I rest,
Thy loving hands will set
The flowers that please me best —
Moss-rose and violet.
Then to the sleep I crave
Resign me, till I see
The face of Him who gave
His life for thee and me.
Yet, with the setting sun,
Come, now and then, at eve,
And think of me as one
For whom thou shouldst not grieve;
Who, when the kind release
From sin and suffering came,
Passed to the appointed peace
In murmuring thy name.
Leave at my side a space,
Where thou shalt come, at last,
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