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ウィリアム・カレン・ブライアント(William Cullen Bryant 1794年11月3日- 1878年6月12日)は、アメリカのロマン派詩人、ジャーナリスト。長年『ニューヨーク・イブニング・ポスト』紙に勤めた。
ブライアントは1794年11月3日に、カミントン(マサチューセッツ州)付近の丸太小屋で生まれた。
父はピーター・ブライアント(1767年8月12日~1820年3月20日)という医師で州議会議員。母はサラ・スネル(1768年12月4日~1847年5月6日)。次男だった。母の祖先はヘジョン・オールデン(1599~1687)、父の祖先はフランシス・クック(1577~1663)で、両方メイフラワー号の乗客だった。2歳のとき家族で新しい家に引っ越した。彼の少年時代の家は、現在は博物館「ウィリアム・カレン・ブライアント・ホームステッド」となっている。
ウィリアムズ大学を二年で卒業し、ワージントンとブリッジウォーターで法律を学んだ。1815年(21歳)に法曹界入り。プレーンフィールドで見習いを始めた。毎日カミントンから7マイル(10km)歩いて。
1815年12月に、いつも通り歩いていたら、地平線あたりを一羽の鳥が飛んでいるのが見えた。この光景に感動した彼は詩作品『To a Waterfowl』(水鳥に)を書いた。
ブライアントは人生の早い段階で、詩への興味を深めた。父の指導の下で、アレクサンダー・ポープなどの新古典派英国詩人を模倣した。父親の連邦主義を反映し、トーマス・ジェファーソン大統領を辛辣に批判した『The Embargo』(禁輸)は1808年、14歳のときに出版された。
詩人の年齢が低かったため注目を浴び、初版はすぐに売り切れた。第2版の拡張版は古典詩の翻訳をふくんでいた。
その後、ロマン派以前の英国詩、とくにウィリアム・ワーズワースと出会い、詩に魅了された。
代表作『タナトプシス(死の考察)~Thanatopsis』は1811年、17歳のときに作った。死のみじめさをさんざん説明したのちに「余裕で迎えられるように悔いのない日々を送ろう」と締める作品で、一般に受けた。[1][2]
THANATOPSIS.(タナトス・トプシー)
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 healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, e're 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 nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the 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 thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst 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-ribbed 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 gray 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 Oregon, 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 withdraw
Unheeded 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 favourite 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,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,--
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 that mysterious realm, 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, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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