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Traveller

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THE MURDERED TRAVELLER
by William Cullen Bryant

When spring, to woods and wastes around,
  Brought bloom and joy again,
The murdered traveller's bones were found,
  Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung
  Her tassels in the sky; 
And many a vernal blossom sprung, 
  And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
  His hanging nest o'erhead,
And fearless, near the fatal spot,
  Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,
  And gentle eyes, for him, 
With watching many an anxious day, 
  Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met, 
When shouting o'er the desert snow, 
Unarmed, and hard beset;—

Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red, 
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead ;—

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear. 

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