Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, EPICEDIUM: WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, by BAYARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

EPICEDIUM: WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Say, who shall mourn him first
Last Line: And his first word was noble as his last!
Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard
Subject(s): Bryant, William Cullen (1794-1878); Italy; Kisses; Poetry & Poets; Singing & Singers; Italians


I.

SAY, who shall mourn him first,
Who sang in days for Song so evil-starred,
Shielding from adverse winds the flame he nursed, --
Our Country's earliest Bard?
For all he sang survives
In stream, and tree, and bird, and mountain-crest,
And consecration of uplifted lives
To Duty's stern behest;
Till, like an echo falling late and far
As unto Earth the answer from a star,
Along his thought's so nigh unnoted track
Our people's heart o'ertakes
His pure design, and hears him, and awakes
To breathe its music back!
Approach, sad Forms, now fitly to employ
The grave, sweet stops of all melodious sound,
Yet undertoned with joy;
For him ye lose, at last is truly found.

II.

Scarce darkened by the shadow of these hours,
The Manitou of Flowers,
Crowned with the Painted-cup, that shakes
Its gleam of war-paint on his dusky cheek,
Goes by, but cannot speak;
Yet tear or dew-drop 'neath his coronal breaks,
And in his drooping hand
The azure eyelids of the gentian die
That loves the yellow autumn land;
The wind-flower, golden-rod,
With phlox and orchis, nod;
And every blossom frail and shy
No careless loiterer sees,
But poet, sun and breeze,
And the bright countenance of our western sky.
They know who loved them; they, if all
Forgot to dress his pall,
Or strew his couch of long repose,
Would from the prairies and the central snows
The sighing west-wind call,
Their withered petals, even as tears, to bear,
And, like a Niobe of air,
Upon his sea-side grave to let them fall!

III.

Next you, ye many Streams,
That make a music through his cold green land!
Whether ye scour the granite slides
In broken spray-light or in sheeted gleams,
Or in dark basins stand,
Your bard's fond spirit in your own abides.
Not yours the wail of woe,
Whose joy is in your wild and wanton flow, --
Chill, beautiful Undines
That flash white hands behind your thicket-screens,
And charm the wildwood and the cloven flumes
To hide you in their glooms!
But he hath kissed you, and his lips betray
Your coyest secrets; now, no more
Your bickering, winking tides shall stray
Through August's idle day,
Or showered with leaves from brown November's floor,
Untamed, and rich in mystery
As ye were wont to be!
From where the dells of Greylock feed
Your thin, young life, to where the Sangamon
Breaks with his winding green the Western mead,
Delay to hasten on!
Ask not the clouds and hills
To swell the veins of your obedient rills,
And brim your banks with turbid overflow;
But calmly, soothly go,
Soft as a sigh and limpid as a tear,
So that ye seem to borrow
The voice and the visage of sorrow,
For he gave you glory and made you dear!

IV.

Strong Winds and mighty Mountains, sovereign Sea,
What shall your dirges be?
The slow, great billow, far down the shore,
Booms in its breaking: "Dare -- and despair!"
The fetterless winds, as they gather and roar,
Are evermore crying: "Where, oh where?"
The mountain summits, with ages hoar,
Say: "Near and austere, but far and fair!"
Shall ye in your sorrow droop,
Who are strong and sad, and who cannot stoop?
Two may sing to him where he lies,
But the third is hidden behind the skies.
Ye cannot take what he stole,
And made his own in his inmost soul!
The pulse of the endless Wave
Beauty and breadth to his strophes gave;
The Winds with their hands unseen
Held him poised at a height serene;
And the world that wooed him, he smiled to o'ercome it
Whose being the Mountains made so strong, --
Whose forehead arose like a sunlighted summit
Over eyes that were fountains of thought and song!

V.

And last, ye Forms, with shrouded face
Hiding the features of your woe,
That on the fresh sod of his burial-place
Your myrtle, oak, and laurel throw, --
Who are ye? -- whence your silent sorrow?
Strange is your aspect, alien your attire:
Shall we, who knew him, borrow
Your unknown speech for Grief's august desire?
Lo! one, with lifted brow
Says: "Nay, he knew and loved me: I am Spain!"
Another: "I am Germany,
Drawn sadly nearer now
By songs of his and mine that make one strain,
Though parted by the world-dividing sea!"
And from the hills of Greece there blew
A wind that shook the olives of Peru,
Till all the world that knew,
Or, knowing not, shall yet awake to know
The sweet humanity that fused his song, --
The haughty challenge unto Wrong,
And for the trampled Truth his fearless blow, --
Acknowledge his exalted mood
Of faith achieved in song-born solitude,
And give him high acclaim
With those who followed Good, and found it Fame!

VI.

Ah, no! -- why should we mourn
The noble life, that wore its crown of years?
Why drop these tender, unavailing tears
Upon a fate of no fulfilment shorn?
He was too proud to seek
That which should come unasked; and came,
Kindling and brightening as a wind-blown flame
When he had waited long,
And life -- but never art -- was weak,
But youthful will and sympathy were strong
In white-browed eye and hoary-bearded cheek;
Until, when called at last
That later life to celebrate,
Wherein, dear Italy, for thine estate,
The glorious Present joined the glorious Past
He fell, and ceased to be!
We could not yield him grandlier than thus
When, for thy hero speaking, he
Spake equally for us! --
His last word, as his first, was Liberty!
His last word, as his first, for Truth
Struck to the heart of age and youth;
He sought her everywhere,
In the loud city, forest, sea, and air:
He bowed to wisdom other than his own,
To wisdom and to law,
Concealed or dimly shown
In all he knew not, all he knew and saw,
Trusting the Present, tolerant of the Past,
Firm-faithed in what shall come
When the vain noises of these days are dumb;
And his first word was noble as his last!





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