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William Cullen Bryant - The Flood of Years
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A MIGHTY Hand, from an exhaustless Urn,	
Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years,	
Among the nations. How the rushing waves	
Bear all before them! On their foremost edge,	
And there alone, is Life. The Present there	       
Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar	
Of mingled noises. There are they who toil,	
And they who strive, and they who feast, and they	
Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain—	
Woodman and delver with the spade—is there,	        
And busy artisan beside his bench,	
And pallid student with his written roll.	
A moment on the mounting billow seen,	
The flood sweeps over them and they are gone.	
There groups of revellers whose brows are twined	        
With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile,	
And as they raise their flowing cups and touch	
The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath	
The waves and disappear. I hear the jar	
Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth	        
From cannon, where the advancing billow sends	
Up to the sight long files of armëd men,	
That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke.	
The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid,	
Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam.	        
Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief	
Sinks with his followers; the head that wears	
The imperial diadem goes down beside	
The felon’s with cropped ear and branded cheek.	
A funeral-train—the torrent sweeps away	        
Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed	
Of one who dies men gather sorrowing,	
And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on;	
The wail is stifled and the sobbing group	
Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout,	        
The cry of an applauding multitude,	
Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields	
The living mass as if he were its soul!	
The waters choke the shout and all is still.	
Lo! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads	        
The hands in prayer—the engulfing wave o’ertakes	
And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields	
The chisel, and the stricken marble grows	
To beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed,	
A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch	        
Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows;	
A poet, as he paces to and fro,	
Murmurs his sounding lines. A while they ride	
The advancing billow, till its tossing crest	
Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks	        
Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile	
On her young babe that smiles to her again;	
The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieks	
And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down.	
A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray	       
To glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in hand,	
Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look	
Into each other’s eyes. The rushing flood	
Flings them apart: the youth goes down; the maid	
With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes,	        
Waits for the next high wave to follow him.	
An aged man succeeds; his bending form	
Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen stream	
Gleam the white locks, and then are seen no more.	
  Lo! wider grows the stream—a sea-like flood	        
Saps earth’s walled cities; massive palaces	
Crumble before it; fortresses and towers	
Dissolve in the swift waters; populous realms	
Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes	
Engulfed and lost; their very languages	        
Stifled, and never to be uttered more.	
  I pause and turn my eyes, and looking back	
Where that tumultuous flood has been, I see	
The silent ocean of the Past, a waste	
Of waters weltering over graves, its shores	        
Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hull	
Drop away piecemeal; battlemented walls	
Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand	
Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipper.	
There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed	        
The graven legends, thrones of kings o’er-turned,	
The broken altars of forgotten gods,	
Foundations of old cities and long streets	
Where never fall of human foot is heard,	
On all the desolate pavement. I behold	        
Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far within	
The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx,	
Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite,	
Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows	
That long ago were dust; and all around	        
Strewn on the surface of that silent sea	
Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks	
Shorn from dear brows by loving hands, and scrolls	
O’erwritten, haply with fond words of love	
And vows of friendship, and fair pages flung	        
Fresh from the printer’s engine. There they lie	
A moment, and then sink away from sight.	
  I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes,	
For I behold in every one of these	
A blighted hope, a separate history	        
Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties	
Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness	
Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief	
That sorrowfully ended, and I think	
How painfully must the poor heart have beat	        
In bosoms without number, as the blow	
Was struck that slew their hope and broke their peace.	
  Sadly I turn and look before, where yet	
The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist	
Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope,	        
Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers,	
Or wander among rainbows, fading soon	
And reappearing, haply giving place	
To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear	
Shapes from the idle air—where serpents lift	        
The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth	
The bony arm in menace. Further on	
A belt of darkness seems to bar the way	
Long, low, and distant, where the Life to come	
Touches the Life that is. The Flood of Years	        
Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must pass	
That dismal barrier. What is there beyond?	
Hear what the wise and good have said. Beyond	
That belt of darkness, still the Years roll on	
More gently, but with not less mighty sweep.	        
They gather up again and softly bear	
All the sweet lives that late were over-whelmed	
And lost to sight, all that in them was good,	
Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love—	
The lives of infants and ingenuous youths,	        
Sages and saintly women who have made	
Their households happy; all are raised and borne	
By that great current in its onward sweep,	
Wandering and rippling with caressing waves	
Around green islands with the breath	        
Of flowers that never wither. So they pass	
From stage to stage along the shining course	
Of that bright river, broadening like a sea.	
As its smooth eddies curl along their way	
They bring old friends together; hands are clasped	        
In joy unspeakable; the mother’s arms	
Again are folded round the child she loved	
And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now,	
Or but remembered to make sweet the hour	
That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled	        
Or broke are healed forever. In the room	
Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be	
A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw	
The heart, and never shall a tender tie	
Be broken; in whose reign the eternal Change	        
That waits on growth and action shall proceed	
With everlasting Concord hand in hand.
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