Poems (Bryant, 1821)/Thanatopsis
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THANATOPSIS.
To him who in the love of Nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd gentle sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf 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 listTo 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 theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn 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 existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolv’d to earth again;And, lost each human trace, surrend’ring upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements,To be a brother to th’ insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thy eternal resting placeShalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kingsThe powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre.—The hillsRock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and pour’d round all, Old ocean’s grey and melancholy waste,—Are but the solemn decorations allOf 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 treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom.—Take the wingsOf morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there,And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.—So shalt thou rest—and what if thou shalt fallUnnoticed by the living—and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favourite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall come,And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men,The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid,The bow’d with age, the infant in the smilesAnd beauty of its innocent age cut off,—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 joinThe innumerable caravan, that movesTo the pale realms of shade, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain’d and sooth’dBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.