# Specimens of the American Poets/Thanatopsis

Thanatopsis, written by William Cullen Bryant at the age of 17 in 1811, and revised in 1821.
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THANATOPSIS.
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.—When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,— Comes a still voice—yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more ​In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist Thy image. Earth that nourish'd thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to th' insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thy eternal resting place Shalt thou retire alone—nor could'st thou wish Couch more magnificent: Thou shalt lie down 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-ribb'd 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 grey 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 Oregan, 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 shalt fall Unnotic'd 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 favorite 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, The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off,— 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 the pale realms of shade, 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 sustain'd and sooth'd By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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