Poems by William Cullen Bryant. William Cullen Bryant

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 sepulchre.—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—and the Barcan desert pierce,

       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

       Unheeded by 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 favourite 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 glide away, the sons of men,

       The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes

       In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,

       And the sweet 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, that 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.