Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
 
89. The Hunter of the Prairies
 
By William Cullen Bryant
 
 
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,        5
  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;        10
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        15
  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;        20
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        25
  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;        30
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,        35
  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.        40
 
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?        45
  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.        50
Wide are these woods—I tread the maze
  Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.
I hunt till day’s last glimmer dies
  O’er woody vale and glassy height;
And kind the voice and glad the eyes        55
  That welcome my return at night.
 

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