Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/Elegy at the Birthplace of Bryant
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ELEGY AT THE BIRTHPLACE OF BRYANT
Like pilgrims to the shrine we climbed the hill
To view the spot where Nature's bard was born,
To get perhaps a momentary thrill
From "classic ground," or from the summer morn.
To view the spot where Nature's bard was born,
To get perhaps a momentary thrill
From "classic ground," or from the summer morn.
It was the month when earth and heaven vie,
Of balmy air, and tender bursting buds,
Above the deep cerulean of the sky,
Below, the verdure of the fields and woods.
Of balmy air, and tender bursting buds,
Above the deep cerulean of the sky,
Below, the verdure of the fields and woods.
We heard the south wind stir the half-grown corn,
The babbling of a brooklet fleeing fast;
And low of kine upon the breezes borne,
And song of birds, that caroled as we passed;
The babbling of a brooklet fleeing fast;
And low of kine upon the breezes borne,
And song of birds, that caroled as we passed;
We saw the vastness of the cloudless dome,
The endless beauty of the verdant earth;
And on a distant hill, the summer home,
And at our feet, the scene of Bryant's birth.
The endless beauty of the verdant earth;
And on a distant hill, the summer home,
And at our feet, the scene of Bryant's birth.
But now no dwelling crowns the cellar wall,
For, long ago, its beams and rafters fell—
Only a marble shaft, not broad or tall,
Amid the solitude stands sentinel.
For, long ago, its beams and rafters fell—
Only a marble shaft, not broad or tall,
Amid the solitude stands sentinel.
And now, no children's merry shout is heard,
That sound of yore that cheered the poet's heart
Yet still there comes the "lilting" of a bird,
And one wild rose has not forgot the spot.
That sound of yore that cheered the poet's heart
Yet still there comes the "lilting" of a bird,
And one wild rose has not forgot the spot.
There is no trace of footsteps on the lawn,
No vestige of the well-worn gravel path,—
Even the rustic gate and fence are gone,
So time obliterates the scars of earth.
No vestige of the well-worn gravel path,—
Even the rustic gate and fence are gone,
So time obliterates the scars of earth.
And he, the noblest of that happy throng,
That gaily gathered here in years of yore,
The fair, the brave, the high-souled, and the strong,
Is gone, and earth shall see his face no more.
That gaily gathered here in years of yore,
The fair, the brave, the high-souled, and the strong,
Is gone, and earth shall see his face no more.
Only the sweep of deep eternal hills,
Frescoes of earth, against the dreamy sky,
The reverent soul with awe and rapture fills,
Unchanged since when it cheered the poet's eye.
Frescoes of earth, against the dreamy sky,
The reverent soul with awe and rapture fills,
Unchanged since when it cheered the poet's eye.
And can it be that all which he has said,
The works of years, will fade away like this?
That, one by one, the burning lines will fade,
Until the eye discerns but emptiness?
The works of years, will fade away like this?
That, one by one, the burning lines will fade,
Until the eye discerns but emptiness?
Ah, no! 'twas not with blocks of wood he wrought,
But with the hard-hewn rocks of solid truth,
Building them high into the temple, Thought,
Where they are mortared in eternal youth.
But with the hard-hewn rocks of solid truth,
Building them high into the temple, Thought,
Where they are mortared in eternal youth.
And they shall stand, until the human heart
To Nature's simple song no longer thrills,
Years after men forget this quiet spot,
Far up amid the dreamy Hampshire hills.
To Nature's simple song no longer thrills,
Years after men forget this quiet spot,
Far up amid the dreamy Hampshire hills.