1839

THE FOUNTAIN

by William Cullen Bryant

THE FOUNTAIN -

Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope,

Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly,

With the cool sound of breezes in the beech,

Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear

No stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing up

From the red mould and slimy roots of earth

Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain-air,

In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew

That shines on mountain-blossom. Thus doth God

Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright. -

This tangled thicket on the bank above

Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green!

For thou dost feed the roots of the wild-vine

That trails all over it, and to the twigs

Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts

Her leafy lances; the viburnum there,

Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up

Her circlet of green berries. In and out

The chipping-sparrow, in her coat of brown,

Steals silently lest I should mark her nest. -

Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe

Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks

Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee held

A mighty canopy. When April winds

Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush

Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up,

Opened, in airs of June, her multitude

Of golden chalices to humming-birds

And silken-winged insects of the sky. -

Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in spring;

The liver-leaf put forth her sister blooms

Of faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf,

Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flower

Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem

The red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, left

Her delicate footprint in the soft moist mould,

And on the fallen leaves. The slow-paced bear,

In such a sultry summer noon as this,

Stopped at thy stream, and drank, and leaped across. -

But thou hast histories that stir the heart

With deeper feeling; while I look on thee

They rise before me. I behold the scene

Hoary again with forests! I behold

The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen

Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods,

Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet,

And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cry

That rends the utter silence! 'tis the whoop

Of battle, and a throng of savage men

With naked arms and faces stained like blood,

Fill the green wilderness; the long bare arms

Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream;

Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree

Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short,

As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors

And conquered vanish, and the dead remain

Mangled by tomahawks. The mighty woods

Are still again, the frighted bird comes back

And plumes her wings; but thy sweet waters run

Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down,

Amid the deepening twilight I descry

Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard,

And bear away the dead. The next day's shower

Shall wash the tokens of the fight away. -

I look again- a hunter's lodge is built,

With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well,

While the meek autumn stains the woods with gold,

And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door

The red-man slowly drags the enormous bear

Slain in the chestnut-thicket, or flings down

The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells

Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls,

And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh,

That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves,

The hickory's white nuts, and the dark fruit

That falls from the gray butternut's long boughs. -

So centuries passed by, and still the woods

Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the year

Grew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains

Of winter, till the white man swung the axe

Beside thee- signal of a mighty change.

Then all around was heard the crash of trees,

Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground,

The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired

The brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs;

The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green

The blackened hill-side; ranks of spiky maize

Rose like a host embattled; the buckwheat

Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers

The August wind. White cottages were seen

With rose-trees at the windows; barns from which

Came loud and shrill the crowing of the cock;

Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse,