And hurried landward far away, Crying, "Awake! it is the day!"
It said unto the forest, "Shout! •Hang all your leafy banners out!"
It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, "O bird, awake and sing!”
And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, Your clarion blow, the day is near!"
It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down, and hail the coming morn!"
It shouted through the belfry-tower, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;— Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air- Comes a still voice:-
Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings, The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men—
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man- Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]
Go, Soul, the Body's guest, Upon a thankless arrant;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the World the lie.
Say to the Court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood: Say to the Church, it shows What's good, and doth no good: If Court and Church reply Then give them both the lie.
Tell Potentates, they live. Acting by others' action, Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by a faction: If Potentates reply, Give Potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition
That manage the Estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice, only hate:
And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending:
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell Zeal it wants devotion; Tell Love it is but lust; Tell Time it is but motion;
Tell Flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.
Tell Age it daily wasteth;
Tell Honor how it alters; Tell Beauty how she blasteth; Tell Favor how it falters: And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie.
Tell Wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell Wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness: And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie.
Tell Physic of her boldness;
Tell Skill it is pretension;
Tell Charity of coldness;
Tell Law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell Fortune of her blindness;
Tell Nature of decay;
Tell Friendship of unkindness;
Tell Justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell Arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell Schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.
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