1836

THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES

by William Cullen Bryant

THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES -

Ay, this is freedom!- these pure skies

Were never stained with village smoke:

The fragrant wind; that through them flies,

Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.

Here, with my rifle and my steed,

And her who left the world for me,

I plant me, where the red deer feed

In the green desert- and am free. -

For here the fair savannas know

No barriers in the bloomy grass;

Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.

In pastures, measureless as air,

The bison is my noble game;

The bounding elk, whose antlers tear

The branches, falls before my aim. -

Mine are the river-fowl that scream

From the long stripe of waving sedge;

The bear that marks my weapon's gleam,

Hides vainly in the forest's edge;

In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;

The brinded catamount, that lies

High in the boughs to watch his prey,

Even in the act of springing, dies. -

With what free growth the elm and plane

Fling their huge arms across my way,

Gray, old, and cumbered with a train

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray!

Free stray the lucid streams, and find

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades;

Free spring the flowers that scent the wind

Where never scythe has swept the glades. -

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere

The heavy herbage of the ground,

Gathers his annual harvest here,

With roaring like the battle's sound,

And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:

I meet the flames with flames again,

And at my door they cower and die. -

Here, from dim woods, the aged past

Speaks solemnly; and I behold

The boundless future in the vast

And lonely river, seaward rolled.

Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,

And trains the bordering vines, whose blue

Bright clusters tempt me as I pass? -

Broad are these streams- my steed obeys,

Plunges, and bears me through the tide.

Wide are these woods- I thread the maze

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.

I hunt till day's last glimmer dies

O'er woody vale and grassy height;

And kind the voice and glad the eyes

That welcome my return at night. - -