Poems pdf Ralph Waldo Emerson Free Download

Eager youths came to him for rules, and went away with light. Reformers, wise and unwise, came to him, and were kindly received. They were often disappointed that they could not harness him to their partial and transient scheme. He said, My reforms include theirs: I must go my way; help people by my strength, not by my weakness. But if a storm threatened, he felt bound to appear and show his colors. Against the crying evils of his time he worked bravely in his own way. He wrote to President Van Buren against the wrong done to the Cherokees, dared speak against the idolized Webster, when he deserted the cause of Freedom, constantly spoke of the iniquity of slavery, aided with speech and money the Free State cause in Kansas, was at Phillips's side at the antislavery meeting in 1861 broken up by the Boston mob, urged emancipation daring the war

He enjoyed his Concord home and neighbors, served on the school committee for years, did much for the Lyceum, and spoke on the town's great occasions. He went to all town-meetings, oftener to listen and admire than to speak, and always, took pleasure and pride in the people. In return he was respected and loved by them.

Emerson's house was destroyed by fire in 1872, and the incident exposure and fatigue did him harm. His many friends insisted on rebuilding his house and sending him abroad to get well. He went up the Nile, and revisited England, finding old and new friends, and, on his return, was welcomed and escorted home by the people of Concord. After this time he was unable to write. His old age was quiet and happy among his family and friends. He died in April, 1882.

EDWAED W. EMERSON.

January, 1899.

POEMS.

THE SPHINX.

THE Sphinx is drowsy,

Her wings are furled:

Her ear is heavy,

She broods on the world.

“Who'll tell me my secret,

The ages have kept?—

I awaited the seer

While they slumbered and slept:—

“The fate of the man-child,

The meaning of man;

Known fruit of the unknown;

Dædalian plan;

Out of sleeping a waking,

Out of waking a sleep;

Life death overtaking;

Deep underneath deep?

“Erect as a sunbeam

Upspringeth the palm;

The elephant browses

Undaunted and calm;

In beautiful motion

The thrush plies his wings;

Kind leaves of his covert,

Your silence he sings.

“The waves, unashamed,

In difference sweet,

Play glad with the breezes,

Old playfellows meet;

The journeying atoms,

Primordial wholes,

Firmly draw, firmly drive,

By their animate poles.

“sea, earth, air, sound, silence,

Plant, quadruped, bird,

By one music enchanted,

One deity stirred,—

Each the other adorning,

Accompany still;

Night veileth the morning,

The vapor the hill.

“The babe by its mother

Lies bathed in joy;

Glide its hours uncounted,—

The sun is its toy;

Shines the peace of all being,

Without cloud, in its eyes;

And the sum of the world

In soft miniature lies.

“But man crouches and blushes,

Absconds and conceals

He creepeth and peepeth,

He palters and steals;

Intirm, melaneholy,

Jealous glancing around,

An oaf, an accomplice,

He poisons the ground.

“Out spoke the great mother,

Beholding his tear;—

At the sound of her accents

Cold shuddered the sphere:—

‘Who has drugged my boy's cup?

Who has mixed my boy's bread?

Who, with sadness and madness,

Has turned my child's head?’”

I heard a poet answer

Aloud and cheerfully,

“Say on, sweet Sphinx! thy dirges

Are pleasant songs to me.

Deep love lieth under

These pictures of time;

They fade in the light of

Their meaning sublime.

“The fiend that man harries

Is love of the Best;

Yawns the pit of the Dragon,

Lit by rays from the Blest.

The Lethe of Nature

Can't trance him again,

Whose soul sees the perfect,

Which his eyes seek in vain,

“To vision prof bunder

Man's spirit must dive;

His aye-rolling orb

At no goal will arrive;

The heavens that now draw him

With sweetness untold,

Once found,—for new heavens

He spurneth the old.

“Pride ruined the angels,

Their shame them restores;

Lurks the joy that is sweetest

In stings of remorse.

Have I a lover

Who is noble and free?—

I would he were nobler

Than to love me.

“Eterne alternation

Now follows, now flies;

And under pain, pleasure,—

Under pleasure, pain lies.

Love works at the centre,

Heart-heaving alway;

Forth speed the strong pulses

To the borders of day.

“Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits;

Thy sight is growing blear;

Rue, myrrh and cummin for the Sphinx,

Her muddy eyes to clear!”

The old Sphinx bit her thick lip,—

Said, “Who taught thee me to name?

I am thy spirit, yoke-fellow,

Of thine eye I am eyebeam.

“Thou art the unanswered question;

Couldst see thy proper eye,

Alway it asketh, asketh;

And each answer is a lie.

So take thy quest through nature,

It through thousand natures ply;

Ask on, thou clothed eternity;

Time is the false reply.”

Uprose the merry Sphinx,

And crouched no more in stone;

She melted into purple cloud,

She silvered in the moon;

She spired into a yellow flame;

She flowered in blossoms red;

She flowed into a foaming wave;

She stood Monadnoc's head.

Thorough a thousand voices

Spoke the universal dame;

“Who telleth one of my meanings,

Is master of all I am.”

EACH AND ALL.

LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked down

Of thee from the hill-top looking down;

The heifer that lows in the upland farm,

Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;

The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,

Deems not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse, and lists with delight,

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;

Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.

All are needed by each one;

Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,

Singing at dawn on the alder bough;

I brought him home, in his nest, at even;

He sings the song, but it cheers not now,

For I did not bring home the river and sky;—

He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.

The delicate shells lay on the shore;

The bubbles of the latest wave

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,

And the bellowing of the savage sea

Greeted their safe escape to me.

I wiped away the weeds and foam,

I fetched my sea-born treasures home;

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things

Had left their beauty on the shore

With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.

The lover watched his graceful maid,

As ‘mid the virgin train she strayed,

Nor knew her beauty's best attire

Was woven still by the snow-white choir.

At last she came to his hermitage,

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;—

The gay enchantment was undone,

A gentle wife, but fairy none.

Then I said, ‘I covet truth;

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;

I leave it behind with the games of youth;’—

As I spoke, beneath my feet

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,

Running over the club-moss burrs;

I inhaled the violet's breath;

Around me stood the oaks and firs;

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;

Over me soared the eternal sky,

Full of light and of deity;

Again I saw, again I heard,

The rolling river, the morning bird;—

Beauty through my senses stole;

I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

THE PROBLEM.

I LIKE a church; I like a cowl;

I love a prophet of the soul;

And on my heart monastic aisles

Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles;

Yet not for all his faith can see

Would I that cowlèd churchman be.

Why should the vest on him allure,

Which I could not on me endure?

Not from a vain or shallow thought

His awful Jove young Phidias brought;

Never from lips of cunning fell

The thrilling Delphic oracle;

Out from the heart of nature rolled

The burdens of the Bible old;

The litanies of nations came,

Like the volcano's tongue of flame,

Up from the burning core below,—

The canticles of love and woe:

The hand that rounded Peter's dome

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome

Wrought in a sad sincerity;

Himself from God he could not free;

He builded better than he knew;—

The conscious stone to beauty grew.

Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest

Of leaves, and feathers from her breast?

Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,

Painting with morn each annual cell?

Or how the sacred pine-tree adds

To her old leaves new myriads?

Such and so grew these holy piles,

Whilst love and terror laid the tales.

Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,

As the best gem upon her zone,

And Morning opes with haste her lids

To gaze upon the Pyramids;

O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,

As on its friends, with kindred eye;

For out of Thought's interior sphere

These wonders rose to upper air;

And Nature gladly gave them place,

Adopted them into her race,

And granted them an equal date

With Andes and with Ararat.

These temples grew as grows the grass;

Art might obey, but not surpass.

The passive Master lent his hand

To the vast soul that o'er him planned;

And the same power that reared the shrine

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.

Ever the fiery Pentecost

Girds with one flame the countless host,

Trances the heart through chanting choirs,

And through the priest the mind inspires.

The word unto the prophet spoken

Was writ on tables yet unbroken;

The word by seers or sibyls told,

In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,

Still floats upon the morning wind,

Still whispers to the willing mind.

One accent of the Holy Ghost

The heedless world hath never lost.

I know what say the fathers wise,—

The Book itself before me lies,

Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,

And he who blent both in his line,

The younger Golden Lips or mines,

Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines.

His words are music in my ear,

I see his cowlèd portrait dear;

And yet, for all his faith could see,

I would not the good bishop be.

TO RHEA.

THEE, dear friend, a brother soothes,

Not with flatteries, bat truths,

Which tarnish not, but purify

To light which dims the morning's eye.

I have come from the spring-woods,

From the fragrant solitudes;—

Listen what the poplar-tree

And murmuring waters counselled me.

If with love thy heart has burned;

If thy love is unreturned;

Hide thy grief within thy breast,

Though it tear thee unexpressed;

For when love has once departed

From the eyes of the false-hearted,

And one by one has torn off quite

The bandages of purple light;

Though thou wert the loveliest

Form the soul had ever dressed,

Thou shalt seem, in each reply,

A vixen to his altered eye;

Thy softest pleadings seem too bold,

Thy praying lute will seem to scold;

Though thou kept the straightest road,

Yet thou errest far and broad.

But thou shalt do as do the gods

In their cloudless periods;

For of this lore be thou sure,—

Though thou forget, the gods, secure,

Forget never their command,

Bat make the statute of this land.

As they lead, so follow all,

Elver have done, ever shall.

Warning to the blind and deaf,

'T is written on the iron leaf,

Who drinks of Cupid's nectar cup

Loveth downward, and not up;

He who loves, of gods or men,

Shall not by the same be loved again;

His sweetheart's idolatry

Falls, in turn, a new degree.

When a god is once beguiled

By beauty of a mortal child

And by her radiant youth delighted,

He is not fooled, but warily knoweth

His love shall never be requited.

And thus the wise Immortal doeth,—

'T is his study and deligh

To bless that creature day and night;

From all evils to defend her;

In her lap to pour all splendor;

To ransack earth for riches rare,

And fetch her stars to deck her hair;

He mixes music with her thoughts,

And saddens her with heavenly doubts;

All grace, all good his great heart knows,

Profuse in love, the king bestows,

Saying, ‘Hearken! Earth, Sea, Air;

This monument of my despair

Build I to the All-Good, All-Fair.

Not for a private good,

But I, from my beatitude.

Albeit scorned as none was scorned,

Adorn her as was none adorned.

I make this maiden an ensample

To Nature, through her kingdoms

Whereby to model newer races,

Statelier forms and fairer faces;

To carry man to new degrees

Of power and of comeliness.

These presents be the hostages

Which I pawn for my release.

See to thyself, O Universe!

Thou art better, and not worse.’—

And the god, having given all,

Is freed forever from his thrall.

THE VISIT.

ASKEST, ‘How long thou shalt stay;

Devastator of the day!

Know, each substance and relation,

Thorough nature's operation,

Hath its unit, bound and metre;

And every new compound

Is some product and repeater,—

Product of the earlier found.

But the unit of the visit,

The encounter of the wise,—

Say, what other metre is it

Than the meeting of the eyes?

Nature poureth into nature

Through the channels of that feature,

Riding on the ray of sight,

Fleeter far than whirlwinds go,

Or for service, or delight,

Hearts to hearts their meaning show,

Sum their long experience,

And import intelligence.

Single look has drained the breast;

Single moment years confessed.

The duration of a glance

Is the term of convenance,

And, though thy rede be church or state,

Frugal multiples of that.

Speeding Saturn cannot halt;

Linger,—thou shalt rue the fault;

If Love his moment overstay,

Hatred's swift repulsions play.

URIEL.

IT fell in the ancient periods

Which the brooding soul surveys,

Or ever the wild Time coined itself

Into calendar months and days.

This was the lapse of Uriel,

Which in Paradise befell.

Once, among the Pleiads walking,

Seyd overheard the young gods talking;

And the treason, too long pent,

To his ears was evident.

The young deities discussed

Laws of form, and metre jusi,

Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,

What subsisteth, and what seems.

One, with low tones that decide,

And doubt and reverend use defied,

With a look that solved the sphere,

And stirred the devils everywhere,

Grave his sentiment divine

Against the being of a line.

‘Line in nature is not found;

Unit and universe are round;

In vain produced, all rays return;

Evil will bless, and ice will burn;

As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,

A shudder ran around the sky;

The stern old war-gods shook their heads,

The seraphs frowned from myrtle-beds;

Seemed to the holy festival

The rash word boded ill to all;

The balance-beam of Fate was bent;

The bounds of good and ill were rent;

Strong Hades could not keep his own,

But all slid to confusion.

A sad self-knowledge, withering, fell

On the beauty of Uriel;

In heaven once eminent, the god

Withdrew, that hour, into his cloud;

Whether doomed to long gyration

In the sea of generation,

Or by knowledge grown too bright

To hit the nerve of feebler sight.

Straightway, a forgetting wind

Stole over the celestial kind,

And their lips the secret kept,

If in ashes the fire-seed slept.

But now and then, truth-speaking things

Shamed the angels’ veiling wings;

And, shrilling from the solar course,

Or from fruit of chemic force,

Procession of a soul in matter,

Or the speeding change of water,

Or out of the good of evil born,

Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn,

And a blush tinged the upper sky,

And the gods shook, they knew not why.

THE WORLD-SOUL.

THANKS to the morning light,

Thanks to the foaming sea,

To the uplands of New Hampshire,

To the green-haired forest free;

Thanks to each man of courage,

To the maids of holy mind,

To the boy with his games undaunted

Who never looks behind.

Cities of proud hotels,

Houses of rich and great,

Vice nestles in your chambers,

Beneath your roofs of slate.

It cannot conquer folly,—

Time-and-space-conquering steam,—

And the light-outspeeding telegraph

Bears nothing on its beam.

The politics are base;

The letters do not cheer;

And 't is far in the deeps of history,

The voice that speaketh clear.

Trade and the streets ensnare us,

Our bodies are weak and worn;

We plot and corrupt each other,

And we despoil the unborn.

Yet there in the parlor sits

Some figure of noble guise,—

Our angel, in a stranger's form,

Or woman's pleading eyes;

Or only a flashing sunbeam

In at the window-pane;

Or Music pours on mortals

Its beautiful disdain.

The inevitable morning

Finds them who in cellars be;

And be sure the all-loving Nature

Will smile in a factory.

Yon ridge of purple landscape,

Yon sky between the walls,

Hold all the hidden wonders

In scanty intervals.

Alas! the Sprite that haunts us

Deceives our rash desire;

It whispers of the glorious gods,

And leaves us in the mire.

We cannot learn the cipher

That's writ upon our cell;

Stars taunt us by a mystery

Which we could never spell.

If but one hero knew it,

The world would blush in flame;

The sage, till he bit the secret,

Would hang his head for shame.

Our brothers have not read it,

Not one has found the key;

And henceforth we are comforted,—

We are but such as they.

Still, still the secret presses;

The nearing clouds draw down;

The crimson morning flames into

The fopperies of the town.

Within, without the idle earth,

Stars weave eternal rings;

The sun himself shines heartily,

And shares the joy he brings.

And what if Trade sow cities

Like shells along the shore,

And thatch with towns the prairie broad

With railways ironed o'er?—

They are but sailing foam-bells

Along Thought's causing stream,

And take their shape and sun-color

From him that sends the dream.

For Destiny never swerves,

Nor yields to men the helm;

He shoots his thought, by hidden nerves,

Throughout the solid realm.

The patient Dæmon sits,

With roses and a shroud;

He has his way, and deals his gifts,—

But ours is not allowed.

He is no churl nor trifler,

And his viceroy is none,—

Love-without-weakness,—

Of Genius sire and son.

And bis will is not thwarted;

The seeds of land and sea

Are the atoms of his body bright,

And his behest obey.

He serveth the servant,

The brave he loves amain;

He kills the cripple and the sick,

And straight begins again;

For gods delight in gods,

And thrust the weak aside;

To him who scorns their charities

Their arms fly open wide.

When the old world is sterile

And the ages are effete,

He will from wrecks and sediment

The fairer world complete.

He forbids to despair;

His cheeks mantle with mirth;

And the unimagined good of men

Is yeaning at the birth.

Spring still makes spring in the mind

When sixty years are told;

Love wakes anew this throbbing heart,

And we are never old.

Over the winter glaciers

I see the summer glow,

And through the wild-piled snowdrift,

The warm rosebuds below.

ALPHONSO OF CASTILE.

I, ALPHONSO, live and learn,

Seeing Nature go astern.

Things deteriorate in kind;

Lemons run to leaves and rind;

Meagre crop of figs and limes;

Shorter days and harder times.

Flowering April cools and dies

In the insufficient skies.

Imps, at high midsummer, blot

Half the sun's disk with a spot;

'T will not now avail to tan

Orange cheek or skin of man.

Roses bleach, the goats are dry,

Lisbon quakes, the people cry.

Yon pale, scrawny fisher fools,

Gaunt as bitterns in the pools,

Are no brothers of my blood;—

They discredit Adamhood.

Eyes of gods! ye must have seen,

O'er your ramparts as ye lean,

The general debility;

Of genius the sterility;

Mighty projects countermanded;

Rash ambition, brokenhanded;

Pony man and scentless rose Tormenting Pan to double the dose,

Rebuild or ruin: either fill

Of vital force the wasted rill,

Or tumble all again in heap

To weltering chaos and to sleep.

Say, Seigniors, are the old Niles dry,

Which fed the veins of earth and sky,

That mortals miss the loyal heats,

Which drove them erst to social feats;

Now, to a savage aelfness grown,

Think nature barely serves for one;

With science poorly mask their hurt,

And vex the gods with question pert,

Immensely curious whether you

Still are rulers, or mildew?

Masters, I'm in pain with you;

Masters, I'll be plain with you;

In my palace of Castile,

I, a king, for kings can feel.

There my thoughts the matter roll,

And solve and oft resolve the whole.

And, for I'm styled Alphonse the Wise,

Ye shall not fail for sound advice.

Before ye want a drop of rain,

Hear the sentiment of Spain.

You have tried famine: no more try it;

Fly us now with a full diet;

Teach your pupils now with plenty,

For one sun supply us twenty.

I have thought it thoroughly over,—

State of hermit, state of lover;

We must have society,

We cannot spare variety.

Hear you, then, celestial fellows!

Fits not to be overzealous;

Steads not to work on the clean jump,

Nor wine nor brains perpetual pump.

Men and gods are too extense;

Could you slacken and condense?

Your rank overgrowths reduce

Till your kinds abound with juice?

Earth, crowded, cries, ‘Too many men!’

My counsel is, kill nine in ten,

And bestow the shares of all

On the remnant decimal.

Add their nine lives to this cat;

Stuff their nine brains in one hat;

Make his frame and forces square

With the labors he must dare;

Thatch his flesh, and even his years

With the marble which he rears.

There, growing slowly old at ease,

No faster than his planted trees,

He may, by warrant of his age,

In schemes of broader scope engage.

So shall ye have a man of the sphere

Fit to grace the solar year.

MITHRIDATES.

I CANNOT spare water or wine,

Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;

From the earth-poles to the line,

All between that works or grows,

Every thing is kin of mine.

Give me agates for my meat;

Give me cantharida to eat;

From air and ocean bring me foods,

From all zones and altitudes;—

From all natures, sharp and slimy,

Salt and basalt, wild and tame;

Tree and lichen, ape, sea-lion,

Bird, and reptile, be my game.

Ivy for my fillet band;

Blinding dog-wood in my hand;

Hemlock for my sherbet cull me,

And the prussic juice to lull me;

Swing me in the upas boughs,

Vampyre-fanned, when I carouse.

Too long shut in strait and few,

Thinly dieted on dew,

I will use the world, and sift it,

To a thousand humors shift it,

As you spin a cherry.

O doleful ghosts, and goblins merry;

O all you virtues, methods, mights,

Means, appliances, delights,

Reputed wrongs and braggart rights,

Smug routine, and things allowed,

Minorities, things under cloud!

Hither! take me, use me, fill me,

Vein and artery, though ye kill me!

TO J. W.

SET not thy foot on graves;

Hear what wine and roses say;

The mountain chase, the summer waves,

The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.

Set not thy foot on graves;

Nor seek to unwind the shroud

Which charitable Time

And Nature have allowed

To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.

Set not thy foot on graves;

Care not to strip' the dead

Of his sad ornament,

His myrrh, and wine, and rings,

His sheet of lead,

And trophies buried;

Go, get them where he earned them when alive;

As resolutely dig or dive.

Life is too short to waste

In critic peep or cynic bark,

Quarrel or reprimand:

'T will soon be dark;

Up! mind thine own aim, and

God speed the mark!

DESTINY.

THAT you are fair or wise is vain,

Or strong, or rich, or generous;

You must add the untaught strain

That sheds beauty on the rose.

There's a melody born of melody,

Which melts the world into a sea.

Toil could never compass it;

Art its height could never hit;

It came never out of wit;

But a music music-born

Well may Jove and Juno scorn.

Thy beauty, if it lack the fire

Which drives me mad with sweet desire,

What boots it? What the soldier's mail,

Unless he conquer and prevail?

What all the goods thy pride which lift,

If thou pine for another's gift?

Alas! that one is born in blight,

Victim of perpetual slight:

When thou lookest on his face,

Thy heart saith, ‘Brother, go thy ways!

None shall ask thee what thou doest,

Or care a rush for what thou knowest,

Or listen when thou repliest,

Or remember where thou lieat,

Or how thy supper is sodden;’

And another is born

To make the sun forgotten.

Surely he carries a talisman

Under his tongue;

Broad his shoulders are and strong;

And his eye is scornful,

Threatening and young.

I hold it of little matter

Whether your jewel be of pure water,

A rose diamond or a white,

But whether it dazzle me with light.

I care not how you are dressed,

In coarsest weeds or in the best;

Nor whether your name is base or brave;

Nor for the fashion of your behavior;

But whether you charm me,

Bid my bread feed and my fire warm me,

And dress up Nature in your favor.

One thing is forever good;

That one thing is Success,—

Dear to the Eumenides,

And to all the heavenly brood.

Who bides at home, nor looks abroad,

Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.

GUY.

MORTAL mixed of middle clay,

Attempered to the night and day,

Interchangeable with things,

Needs no amulets nor rings,

Guy possessed the talisman

That all things from him began;

And as, of old, Polycrates

Chained the sunshine and the breeze,

So did Guy betimes discover

Fortune was his guard and lover;

In strange junctures, felt, with awe,

His own symmetry with law;

That no mixture could withstand

The virtue of his lucky hand.

He gold or jewel could not lose,

Nor not receive his ample dues.

Fearless Guy had never foes,

He did their weapons decompose.

Aimed at him, the blushing blade

Healed as fast the wounds it made.

If on the foeman fell his gaze,

Him it would straightway blind or craze

In the street, if he turned round,

His eye the eye 't was seeking found.

It seemed his Genius discreet

Worked on the Maker's own receipt,

And made each tide and element

Stewards of stipend and of rent;

So that the common waters fell

As costly wine into his well.

He had so sped his wise affairs

That he caught Nature in his snares.

Early or late, the falling rain

Arrived in time to swell his grain;

Stream could not so perversely wind

But corn of Guy's was there to grind:

The siroc found it on its way,

To speed his sails, to dry his hay;

And the world's sun seemed to rise

To drudge all day for Guy the wise.

In his rich nurseries, timely skill

Strong crab with nobler blood did fill;

The aephyr in his garden rolled

From plum-trees vegetable gold;

And all the hours of the year

With their own harvest honored were.

There was no frost but welcome came,

Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame.

Belonged to wind and world the toil

And venture, and to Guy the oil.

HAMATREYA.

BULKELEY, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint,

Possessed the land which rendered to their toil

Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool and wood.

Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm,

Saying, “T is mine, my children's and my name's.

How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees!

How graceful climb those shadows on my hill!

I fancy these pure waters and the flags

Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize;

And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil.'

Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds:

And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough.

Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys

Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs;

Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet

Clear of the grave.

They added ridge to valley, brook to pond,

And sighed for all that bounded their domain;

‘This suits me for a pasture; that's my park;

We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge,

And misty lowland, where to go for peat.

The land is well,—lies fairly to the south.

'T is good, when you have crossed the sea and back,

To find the sitfast acres where you left them.’

Ah! the hot owner sees not Death, who adds

Him to his land, a lump of mould the more.

Hear what the Earth says:—

EARTH-SONG.

‘Mine and yours;

Mine, not yours,

Earth endures;

Stars abide—

Shine down in the old sea;

Old are the shores;

But where are old men?

I who have seen much,

Such have I never seen.

‘The lawyer's deed

Ran sure,

In tail,

To them, and to their heirs

Who shall succeed,

Without fail,

Forevermore.

‘Here is the land,

Shaggy with wood,

With its old valley,

Mound and flood.

But the heritors?—

Fled like the flood's foam.

The lawyer, and the laws,

And the kingdom,

Clean swept herefrom.

‘They called me theirs,

Who so controlled me;

Yet every one

Wished to stay, and is gone,

How am I theirs,

If they cannot hold me,

But I hold them?’

When I heard the Earth-song,

I was no longer brave;

My avarice cooled

Like lust in the chill of the grave.

GOOD-BYE.

GOOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going home:

Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.

Long through thy weary crowds I roam;

A river-ark on the ocean brine,

Long I've been tossed like the driven foam;

But now, proud world! I'm going home.

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;

To Grandeur with his wise grimace;

To upstart Wealth's averted eye;

To supple Office, low and high;

To crowded halls, to court and street;

To frozen hearts and hasting feet;

To those who go, and those who come;

Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.

I am going to my own hearth-stone,

Bosomed in yon green hills alone,—

A secret nook in a pleasant land,

Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;

Where arches green, the livelong day,

Echo the blackbird's roundelay,

And vulgar feet have never trod

A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,

I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;

And when I am stretched beneath the pines,

Where the evening star so holy shines,

I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,

At the sophist schools and the learned clan;

For what are they all, in their high conceit,

When man in the bush with God may meet?

THE RHODORA:
ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?

IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,

To please the desert and the sluggish brook.

The purple petals, fallen in the pool,

Made the black water with their beauty gay;

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew:

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

THE HUMBLE-BEE.

BURLY, dozing humble-bee,

Where thou art is clime for me.

Let them sail for Porto Rique,

Far-off heats through seas to seek;

I will follow thee alone,

Thou animated torrid-zone!

Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,

Let me chase thy waving lines;

Keep me nearer, me thy hearer.

Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun,

Joy of thy dominion!

Sailor of the atmosphere;

Swimmer through the waves of air!

Voyager of light and noon;

Epicurean of June;

Wait, I prithee, till I come

Within earshot of thy hum,—

All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days,

With a net of shining haze

Silvers the horizon wall,

And with softness touching all,

Tints the human countenance

With a color of romance,

And infusing subtle heats,

Turns the sod to violets,

Thou, in sunny solitudes,

Rover of the underwoods,

The green silence dost displace

With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone,

Sweet to me thy drowsy tone

Tells of countless sunny hours

Long days, and solid banks of flowers;

Of gulfs of sweetness without bound

In Indian wildernesses found;

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,

Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean

Hath my insect never seen;

But violets and bilberry bells,

Maple-sap and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,

Succory to match the sky,

Columbine with horn of honey,

Scented fern, and agrimony,

Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue

And brier-roses, dwelt among;

All beside was unknown waste,

All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,

Yellow-breeched philosopher!

Seeing only what is fair,

Sipping only what is sweet,

Thou dost mock at fate and care,

Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.

When the fierce northwestern blast

Cools sea and land so far and fast,

Thou already slumberest deep;

Woe and want thou canst outsleep;

Want and woe, which torture us,

Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

BERRYING.

MAY be true what I had heard,—

Earth's a howling wilderness,

Truculent with fraud and force

Said I, strolling through the pastures,

And along the river-side.

Caught among the blackberry vines,

Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,

Pleasant fancies overtook me.

I said, ‘What influence me preferred,

Elect, to dreams thus beautiful?’

The vines replied, ‘And didst thou deem

No wisdom from our berries went?’

THE SNOW-STORM.

ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,

And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north wind's masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermore

Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer

Curves his white bastions with projected roof

Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.

Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work

So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he

For number or proportion. Mockingly,

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;

A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn:

Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,

Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate

A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are numbered, and the world

Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art

To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,

Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,

The frolic architecture of the snow.

WOODNOTES.

WHEN the pine tosses its cones

To the song of its waterfall tones,

Who speeds to the woodland walks?

To birds and trees who talks?

Cæsar of his leafy Rome,

There the poet is at home.

He goes to the river-side,—

Not hook nor line hath he;

He stands in the meadows wide,—

Nor gun nor scythe to see.

Sure some god his eye enchants:

What he knows nobody wants.

In the wood he travels glad,

Without better fortune had,

Melancholy without bad.

Knowledge this man prizes best

Seems fantastic to the rest:

Pondering shadows, colors, clouds,

Grass-buds and caterpillar-shrouds,

Boughs on which the wild bees settle

Tints that spot the violet's petal,

Why Nature loves the number five,

And why the star-form she repeats:

Lover of all things alive,

Wonderer at all he meets,

Wonderer chiefly at himself,

Who can tell him what he is?

Or how meet in human elf

Coming and past eternities?

And such I knew, a forest seer,

A minstrel of the natural year,

Foreteller of the vernal ides,

Wise harbinger of spheres and tides,

A lover true, who knew by heart

Each joy the mountain dales impart;

It seemed that Nature could not raise

A plant in any secret place,

In quaking bog, on snowy hill,

Beneath the grass that shades the rill,

Under the snow, between the rocks,

In damp fields known to bird and fox.

But he would come in the very hour

It opened in its virgin bower,

As if a sunbeam showed the place.

And tell its long-descended race.

It seemed as if the breezes brought him

It seemed as if the sparrows taught him

As if by secret sight he knew

Where, in far fields, the orchis grew.

Many haps fall in the field

Seldom seen by wishful eyes

But all her shows did Nature yield,

To please and win this pilgrim wise.

He saw the partridge drum in the woods;

He heard the woodcock's evening hymn;

He found the tawny thrushes' broods;

And the shy hawk did wait for him;

What others did at distance hear,

And guessed within the thicket's gloom,

Was shown to this philosopher,

And at his bidding seemed to come.

In unploughed Maine he sought the lumberers' gang

Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang;

He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon

The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone;

Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear,

And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.

He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds,

The slight Linnæa hang its twin-born heads,

And blessed the monument of the man of flowers,

Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers.

He heard, when in the grove, at intervals,

With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls,—

One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree,

Declares the close of its green century.

Low lies the plant to whose creation went

Sweet influence from every element;

Whose living towers the years conspired to build,

Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild.

Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed,

He roamed, content alike with man and beast

Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;

There the red morning touched him with its light.

Three moons his great heart him a hermit made,

So long he roved at will the boundless shade.

The timid it concerns to ask their way,

And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray,

To make no step until the event is known,

And ills to come as evils past bemoan.

Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps

To spy what danger on his pathway creeps;

Go where he will, the wise man is at home,

His hearth the earth,—his hall the azure dome;

Where his clear spirit leads him, there's his road

By God's own light illumined and foreshowed.

'Twas one of the charmed days

When the genius of God doth flow,

The wind may alter twenty ways,

A tempest cannot blow;

It may blow north, it still is warm;

Or south, it still is clear;

Or east, it smells like a clover-farm;

Or west, no thunder fear.

The musing peasant lowly great

Beside the forest water sate;

The rope-like pine roots crosswise grown

Composed the network of his throne;

The wide lake, edged with sand and grass,

Was burnished to a floor of glass,

Painted with shadows green and proud

Of the tree and of the cloud.

He was the heart of all the scene;

On him the sun looked more serene;

To hill and cloud his face was known,—

It seemed the likeness of their own;

They knew by secret sympathy

The public child of earth and sky.

‘You ask,’ he said, ‘what guide

Me through trackless thickets led,

Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide.

I found the water's bed.

The watercourses were my guide;

I travelled grateful by their side,

Or through their channel dry;

They led me through the thicket damp,

Through brake and fern, the beavers’ camp,

Through beds of granite cut my road,

And their resistless friendship showed:

The falling waters led me,

The foodful waters fed me,

And brought me to the lowest land,

Unerring to the ocean sand.

The moss upon the forest bark

Was pole-star when the night was dark;

The purple berries in the wood

Supplied me necessary food;

For Nature ever faithful is

To such as trust her faithfulness.

When the forest shall mislead me,

When the night and morning lie,

When sea and land refuse to feed me,

'T will be time enough to die;

Then will yet my mother yield

A pillow in her greenest field,

Nor the June flowers scorn to cover

The clay of their departed lover.'

WOODNOTES.

ii.

As sunbeams stream through liberal space And nothing jostle or displace,

So waved the pine-tree through my thought And fanned the dreams it never brought.

‘Whether is better, the gift or the donor?

Come to me,’

Quoth the pine-tree,

‘I am the giver of honor.

My garden is the cloven rock,

And my manure the snow;

And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock,

In summer's scorching glow.

He is great who can live by me.

The rough and bearded forester

Is better than the lord;

God fills the scrip and canister,

Sin piles the loaded board.

The lord is the peasant that was,

The peasant the lord that shall be;

The lord is hay, the peasant grass,

One dry, and one the living tree.

Who liveth by the ragged pine

Foundeth a heroic line;

Who liveth in the palace hall

Waneth fast and spendeth all.

He goes to my savage haunts,

With his chariot and his care;

My twilight realm he disenchants,

And finds his prison there.

‘What prizes the town and the tower?

Only what the pine-tree yields;

Sinew that subdued the fields;

The wild-eyed boy, who in the woods

Chants his hymn to hills and floods,

Whom the city's poisoning spleen

Made not pale, or fat, or lean;

Whom the rain and the wind purgeth,

Whom the dawn and the day-star urgeth,

In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth,

In whose feet the lion rusheth,

Iron arms, and iron mould,

That know not fear, fatigue, or cold.

I give my rafters to his boat,

My billets to his boiler's throat,

And I will swim the ancient sea

To float my child to victory,

And grant to dwellers with the pine

Dominion o'er the palm and vine.

Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend,

Unnerves his strength, invites his end.

Cut a bough from my parent stem,

And dip it in thy porcelain vase;

A little while each russet gem

Will swell and rise with wonted grace;

But when it seeks enlarged supplies,

The orphan of the forest dies.

Whoso walks in solitude

And inhabiteth the wood,

Choosing light, wave, rock and bird,

Before the money-loving herd,

Into that forester shall pass.

From these companions, power and grace.

Clean shall he be, without, within,

From the old adhering sin,

All ill dissolving in the light

Of his triumphant piercing sight:

Not vain, sour, nor frivolous;

Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous;

Grave, chaste, contented, though retired,

And of all other men desired.

On him the light of star and moon

Shall fall with purer radiance down;

All constellations of the sky

Shed their virtue through his eye.

Him Nature giveth for defence

His formidable innocence;

The mounting sap, the shells, the sea,

All spheres, all stones, his helpers be;

He shall meet the speeding year,

Without wailing, without fear;

He shall be happy in his love,

Like to like shall joyful prove;

He shall be happy whilst he wooes,

Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse.

But if with gold she bind her hair,

And deck her breast with diamond,

Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear,

Though thou lie alone on the ground.

‘Heed the old oracles,

Ponder my spells;

Song wakes in my pinnacles

When the wind swells.

Soundeth the prophetic wind,

The shadows shake on the rock behind,

And the countless leaves of the pine are strings

Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings.

Hearken! Hearken!

If thou wouldst know the mystic song

Chanted when the sphere was young.

Aloft, abroad, the pæan swells;

O wise man! hear'st thou half it tells?

O wise man! hear'st thou the least part?

'T is the chronicle of art.

To the open ear it sings

Sweet the genesis of things,

Of tendency through endless ages,

Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages,

Of rounded worlds, of space and time,

Of the old flood's subsiding slime,

Of chemic matter, force and form,

Of poles and powers, cold, wet and warm:

The rushing metamorphosis

Dissolving all that fixture is,

Melts things that be to things that seem,

And solid nature to a dream.

O, listen to the undersong,

The ever old, the ever young;

And, far within those cadent pauses,

The chorus of the ancient Causes!

Delights the dreadful Destiny

To fling his voice into the tree,

And shock thy weak ear with a note

Breathed from the everlasting throat.

In music he repeats the pang

Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang.

O mortal! thy ears are stones;

These echoes are laden with tones

Which only the pure can hear;

Thou canst not catch what they recite

Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right,

Of man to come, of human life,

Of Death and Fortune, Growth and Strife.’

Once again the pine-tree sung:—

‘Speak not thy speech my boughs among: Put off thy years, wash in the breeze;

My hours are peaceful centuries.

Talk no more with feeble tongue;

No more the fool of space and time,

Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme.

Only thy Americans

Can read thy line, can meet thy glance,

But the runes that I rehearse

Understands the universe;

The least breath my boughs which tossed

Brings again the Pentecost;

To every soul resounding clear

In a voice of solemn cheer,—

“Am I not thine? Are not these thine?”

And they reply, “Forever mine!”

My branches speak Italian,

English, German, Basque, Castilian,

Mountain speech to Highlanders,

Ocean tongues to islanders,

To Fin and Lap and swart Malay,

To each his bosom-secret say.

Come learn with me the fatal song

Which knits the world in music strong,

Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes,

Of things with things. of times with times,

Primal chimes of sun and shade,

Of sound and echo man and maid,

The land reflected in the flood,

Body with shadow still pursued.

For Nature beats in perfect tune,

And rounds with rhyme her every rune,

Whether she work in land or sea,

Or hide underground her alchemy.

Thou canst not wave thy staff in air,

Or dip thy paddle in the lake,

But it carves the bow of beauty there.

And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.

The wood is wiser far than thou;

The wood and wave each other know

Not unrelated, unaffied,

But to each thought and thing allied,

Is perfect Nature's every part,

Rooted in the mighty Heart.

But thou, poor child! unbound. unrhymed,

Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed,

Whence, O thou orphan and defrauded?

Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded?

Who thee divorced, deceived and left?

Thee of thy faith who hath bereft,

And torn the ensigns from thy brow,

And sunk the immortal eye so low?

Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender,

Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender

For royal man;— they thee confess

An exile from the wilderness, —

The hills where health with health agrees,

And the wise soul expels disease.

Hark! in thy ear I will tell the sign

By which thy hurt thou may'st divine.

When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff,

Or see the wide shore from thy skiff,

To thee the horizon shall express

But emptiness on emptiness;

There lives no man of Nature's worth

In the circle of the earth;

And to thine eye the vast skies fall,

Dire and satirical,

On clucking hens and prating fools,

On thieves, on drudges and on dolls.

And thou shalt say to the Most High,

“Godhead! all this astronomy,

And fate and practice and invention,

Strong art and beautiful pretension,

This radiant pomp of sun and star,

Throes that were, and worlds that are,

Behold! were in vain and in vain; —

It cannot be,—I will look again.

Surely now will the curtain rise,

And earth's fit tenant me surprise; —

But the curtain doth not rise,

And Nature has miscarried wholly

Into failure, into folly.”

‘Alas! thine is the bankruptey,

Blessed Nature so to see.

Come, lay thee in my soothing shade,

And heal the hurts which sin has made,

I see thee in the crowd alone;

I will be thy companion,

Quit thy friends as the dead in doom,

And build to them a final tomb;

Let the starred shade that nightly falls

Still celebrate their funerals,

And the bell of beetle and of bee

Knell their melodious memory.

Behind thee leave thy merchandise,

Thy churches and thy charities;

And leave thy peacock wit behind;

Enough for thee the primal mind

That flows in streams, that breathes in wind;

Leave all thy pedant lore apart;

God hid the whole world in thy heart.

Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns,

Gives all to them who all renounce.

The rain comes when the wind calls;

The river knows the way to the sea;

Without a pilot it runs and falls,

Blessing all lands with its charity;

The sea tosses and foams to find

Its way up to the cloud and wind;

The shadow sitsc close to the flying ball;

The date fails not on the palm-tree tall;

And thou,—go burn thy wormy pages,—

Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages.

Oft didst thou thread the woods in vain

To find what bird had piped the strain:—

Seek not, and the little eremite

Flies gayly forth and sings in sight.

‘Hearken once more!

I will tell thee the mundane lore.

Older am I than thy numbers wot,

Change I may, but I pass not,

Hitherto all things fast abide,

And anchored in the tempest ride.

Trenchant time behoves to hurry

All to yean and all to bury:

All the forms are fugitive,

But the substances survive.

Ever fresh the broad creation,

A divine improvisation,

From the heart of God proceeds,

A single will, a million deeds.

Once slept the world an egg of stone,

And pulse, and sound, and light was none;

And God said, “Throb!” and there was motion

And the vast mass became vast ocean.

Onward and on, the eternal Pan,

Who layeth the world's incessant plan,

Halteth never in one shape,

But forever doth escape,

Like wave or flame, into new forms

Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms.

I, that to-day am a pine,

Yesterday was a bundle of grass.

He is free and libertine,

Pouring of his power the wine

To every age, to every race;

Unto every race and age

He emptieth the beverage;

Unto each, and unto all,

Maker and original.

The world is the ring of his spells,

And the play of his miracles.

As he giveth to all to drink,

Thus or thus they are and think.

With one drop sheds form and feature;

With the next a special nature;

The third adds heat's indulgent spark;

The fourth gives light which eats the dark;

Into the fifth himself he flings,

And conscious Law is King of kings.

As the bee through the garden ranges,

From world to world the godhead changes;

As the sheep go feeding in the waste,

From form to form He maketh haste;

This vault which glows immense with light

Is the inn where he lodges for a night.

What recks such Traveller if the bowers

Which bloom and fade like meadow flowers

A bunch of fragrant lilies be,

Or the stars of eternity?

Alike to him the better, the worse,—

The glowing angel, the outcast corse.

Thou metest him by centuries,

And lo! he passes like the breeze;

Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy,

He hides in pure transparency;

Thou askest in fountains and in fires,

He is the essence that inquires.

He is the axis of the star;

He is the sparkle of the spar;

He is the heart of every creature;

He is the meaning of each feature;

And his mind is the sky.

Than all it holds more deep, more high.’

MONADNOC.

THOUSAND minstrels woke within me,

‘Our music's in the hills;’—

Gayest pictures rose to win me,

Leopard-colored rills.

‘Up!—If thou knew'st who calls

To twilight parks of beech ard pine,

High over the river intervals,

Above the ploughman's highest line,

Over the owner's farthest walls!

Up! where the airy citadel

O'erlooks the surging landscape's swell!

Let not unto the stones the Day

Her lily and rose, her sea and land display.

Read the celestial sign!

Lo! the south answers to the north;

Bookworm, break this sloth urbane;

A greater spirit bids thee forth

Than the gray dreams which thee detain.

Mark how the climbing Oreads

Beckon thee to their arcades;

Youth, for a moment free as they,

Teach thy feet to feel the ground,

Ere yet arrives the wintry day

When Time thy feet has bound.

Take the bounty of thy birth,

Taste the lordship of the earth.’

I heard, and I obeyed,—

Assured that he who made the claim,

Well known, but loving not a name,

Was not to be gainsaid.

Ere yet the summoning voice was still,

I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill.

From the fixed cone the cloud-rack flowed

Like ample banner flung abroad

To all the dwellers in the plains

Round about, a hundred miles,

With salutation to the sea and to the bordering isles.

In his own loom's garment dressed,

By his proper bounty blessed,

Fast abides this constant giver,

Pouring many a cheerful river;

To far eyes, an aerial isle

Unploughed, which finer spirits pile

Which morn and crimson evening paint

For bard, for lover and for saint;

An eyemark and the country's core,

Inspirer, prophet evermore;

Pillar which God aloft had set

So that men might it not forget;

It should be their life's ornament,

And mix itself with each event;

Gauge and calendar and dial,

Weatherglass and chemic phial,

Garden of berries, perch of birds,

Pasture of pool-haunting herds,

Graced by each change of sum untold,

Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold.

The Titan heeds his sky-affairs,

Rich rents and wide alliance shares;

Mysteries of color daily laid

By morn and eve in light and shade;

And sweet varieties of chance,

And the mystic seasons' dance;

And thief-like step of liberal hours

Thawing snow-drift into flowers.

O, wondrous craft of plant and stone

By eldest science wrought and shown!

‘Happy,’ I said, ‘whose home is here!

Fair fortunes to the mountaineer!

Boon Nature to his poorest shed

Has royal pleasure-grounds outspread.’

Intent, I searched the region round,

And in low hut the dweller found:

Woe is me for my hope's downfall!

Is yonder squalid peasant all

That this proud nursery could breed

For God's vicegerency and stead?

Time out of mind, this forge of ores;

Quarry of spars in mountain pores;

Old cradle, hunting-ground and bier

Of wolf and otter, bear and deer;

Well-built abode of many a race;

Tower of observance searching space;

Factory of river and of rain;

Link in the alps' globe-girding chain;

By million changes skilled to tell

What in the Eternal standeth well,

And what obedient Nature can;—

Is this colossal talisman Kindly to plant and blood and kind,

But speechless to the master's mind?

I thought to find the patriots

In whom the stock of freedom roots;

To myself I oft recount

Tales of many a famous mount,—

Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells;

Bards, Roys, Scanderbegs and Tells;

And think how Nature in these towers

Uplifted shall condense her powers,

And lifting man to the blue deep

Where stars their perfect courses keep,

Like wise preceptor, lure his eye

To sound the science of the sky,

And carry learning to its height

Of untried power and sane delight:

The Indian cheer, the frosty skies,

Rear purer wits, inventive eyes,—

Eyes that frame cities where none be,

And hands that stablish what these see:

And by the moral of his place

Hint summits of heroic grace;

Man in these crags a fastness find

To fight pollution of the mind;

In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong,

Adhere like this foundation strong,

The insanity of towns to stem

With simpleness for stratagem.

But if the brave old mould is broke,

And end in churls the mountain folk

In tavern cheer and tavern joke.

Sink, O mountain, in the swamp!

Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lamp!

Perish like leaves, the highland breed

No sire survive, no son succeed!

Soft! let not the offended muse

Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse,

Many hamlets sought I then,

Many farms of mountain men.

Rallying round a parish steeple

Nestle warm the highland people,

Coarse and boisterous, yet mild,

Strong as giant, slow as child.

Sweat and season are their arts,

Their talismans are ploughs and carts;

And well the youngest can command

Honey from the frozen land;

With eloverheads the swamp adorn,

Change the running sand to corn;

For wolf and fox, bring lowing herds,

And for cold mosses, cream and curds:

Weave wood to canisters and mats;

Drain sweet maple juice in vats.

No bird is safe that cuts the air

From their rifle or their snare;

No fish, in river or in lake,

But their long hands it thence will take;

Whilst the country's flinty face,

Like wax, their fashioning skill betrays,

To fill the hollows, sink the hills,

Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and mills,

And fit the bleak and howling waste

For homes of virtue, sense and taste.

The World-soul knows his own affair,

Forelooking, when he would prepare

For the next ages, men of mould

Well embodied, well ensouled,

He cools the present's fiery glow,

Sets the life-pulse strong but slow:

Bitter winds and fasts anstere

His quarantines and grottoes, where

He slowly cures decrepit flesh,

And brings it infantile and fresh.

Toil and tempest are the toys

And games to breathe his stalwart boys:

They bide their time, and well can prove,

If need were, their line from Jove;

Of the same stuff, and so allayed,

As that whereof the sun is made,

And of the fibre, quick and strong,

Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song.

Now in sordid weeds they sleep,

In dulness now their secret keep;

Yet, will you learn our ancient speech,

These the masters who can teach.

Fourscore or a hundred words

All their vocal muse affords;

But they turn them in a fashion

Past clerks' or statesmen's art or passion.

I can spare the college bell,

And the learned lecture, well;

Spare the clergy and libraries,

Institutes and dictionaries,

For that hardy English root

Thrives here, unvalued, underfoot

Rude poets of the tavern hearth,

Squandering your unquoted mirth,

Which keeps the ground and never soars,

While Jake retorts and Reuben roars;

Scoff of yeoman strong and stark,

Goes like bullet to its mark;

While the solid curse and jeer

Never balk the waiting ear.

On the summit as I stood.

O'er the floor of plain and flood

Seemed to me, the towering hill

Was not altogether still,

But a quiet sense conveyed:

If I err not, thus it said: —

‘Many feet in summer seek,

Oft, my far-appearing peak;

In the dreaded winter time,

None save dappling shadows climb,

Under clouds, my lonely head,

Old as the sun, old almost as the shade;

And comest thou

To see strange forests and new snow,

And tread uplifted land?

And leavest thou thy lowland race,

Here amid clouds to stand?

And wouldst be my companion

Where I gaze, and still shall gaze,

Through tempering nights and flashing days,

When forests fall, and man is gone

Over tribes and over times,

At the burning Lyre,

Nearing me,

With its stars of northern fire,

In many a thousand years?

‘Gentle pilgrim, if thou know

The gamut old of Pan,

And how the hills began,

The frank blessings of the hill

Fall on thee, as fall they will.

‘Let him heed who can and will;

Enchantment fixed me here

To stand the hurts of time, until

In mightier chant I disappear.

If thou trowest

How the chemic eddies play,

Pole to pole, and what they say;

And that these gray erags

Not on crags are hung,

But beads are of a rosary

On prayer and music strung;

And, credulous, through the granite seeming,

Seest the smile of Reason beaming;—

Can thy style-discerning eye

The hidden-working Builder spy,

Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din,

With hammer soft as snowflake's flight;—

Knowest thou this?

O pilgrim, wandering not amiss!

Already my rocks lie light,

And soon my cone will spin.

‘For the world was built in order,

And the atoms march in tune;

Rhyme the pipe, and Time the warder,

The sun obeys them and the moon.

Orb and atom forth they prance,

When they hear from far the rune;

None so backward in the troop,

When the music and the dance

Reach his place and circumstance,

But knows the sun-creating sound,

And, though a pyramid, will bound.

‘Monadnoc is a mountain strong,

Tall and good my kind among;

But well I know, no mountain can,

Zion or Meru, measure with man.

For it is on zodiacs writ,

Adamant is soft to wit:

And when the greater comes again

With my secret in his brain,

I shall pass, as glides my shadow

Daily over hill and meadow.

‘Through all time, in light, in gloom

Well I hear the approaching feet

On the flinty pathway beat

Of him that cometh, and shall come;

Of him who shall as lightly bear

My daily load of woods and streams,

As doth this round sky-cleaving boat

Which never strains its rocky beams;

Whose timbers, as they silent float,

Alps and Caucasus uprear,

And the long Alleghanies here,

And all town-sprinkled lands that be,

Sailing through stars with all their history.

‘Every morn I lift my head,

See New England underspread,

South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound,

From Katskill east to the sea-bound.

Anchored fast for many an age,

I await the bard and sage,

Who, in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed,

Shall string Monadnoc like a bead.

Comes that cheerful troubadour,

This mound shall throb his face before,

As when, with inward fires and pain,

It rose a bubble from the plain.

When he cometh, I shall shed,

From this wellspring in my head,

Fountain-drop of spicier worth

Than all vintage of the earth.

There's fruit upon my barren soil

Costlier far than wine or oil.

There's a berry blue and gold,—

Autumn-ripe, its juices hold

Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart,

Asia's rancor, Athens’ art,

Slowsure Britain's secular might,

And the German's inward sight.

I will give my son to eat

Best of Pan's immortal meat,

Bread to eat, and juice to drain;

So the coinage of his brain

Shall not be forms of stars, but stars,

Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars.

He comes, but not of that race bred

“Who daily climb my specular head.

Oft as morning wreathes my scarf,

Fled the last plumule of the Dark,

Pants up hither the spruce clerk

From South Cove and City Wharf.

I take him up my rugged sides,

Half-repentant, scant of breath,—

Bead-eyes my granite chaos show,

And my midsummer snow:

Open the daunting map beneath,—

All his county, sea and land,

Dwarfed to measure of his hand;

His day's ride is a furlong space,

His city-tops a glimmering haze.

I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding;

“See there the grim gray rounding

Of the bullet of the earth

Whereon ye sail,

Tumbling steep

In the uncontinented deep.”

He looks on that, and he turns pale.

'T is even so, this treacherous kite,

Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere,

Thoughtless of its anxious freight,

Plunges eyeless on forever;

And he, poor parasite,

Cooped in a ship he cannot steer,—

Who is the captain he knows not,

Port or pilot trows not,—

Risk or ruin he must share.

I scowl on him with my cloud.

With my north wind chill his blood;

I lame him. clattering down the rocks;

And to live he is in fear.

Then, at last, I let him down

Once more into his dapper town,

To chatter, frightened, to his clan

And forget me if he can.'

As in the old poetic fame

The gods are blind and lame,

And the simular despite

Betrays the more abounding might,

So call not waste that barren cone

Above the floral zone,

Where forests starve:

It is pure use;—

What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind

Of a celestial Ceres and the Muse?

Ages are thy days,

Thou grand affirmer of the present tense,

And type of permanence!

Firm ensign of the fatal Being,

Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief,

That will not bide the seeing!

Hither we bring

Our insect miseries to thy rocks;

And the whole flight, with folded wing,

Vanish, and end their murmuring,—

Vanish beside these dedicated blocks,

Which who can tell what mason laid?

Spoils of a front none need restore,

Replacing frieze and architrave;—

Where flowers each stone rosette and metope brave;

Still is the haughty pile erect

Of the old building Intellect.

Complement of human kind,

Holding us at vantage still,

Our sumptuous indigence,

O barren mound, thy plenties fill!

We fool and prate;

Thou art silent and sedate.

To myriad kinds and times one sense

The constant mountain doth dispense;

Shedding on all its snows and leaves,

One joy it joys, one grief it grieves.

Thou seest, O watchman tall,

Our towns and races grow and fall,

And imagest the stable good

For which we all our lifetime grope,

In shifting form the formless mind,

And though the substance us elude,

We in thee the shadow find

Thou, in our astronomy

An opaker star,

Seen haply from afar,

Above the horizon's hoop,

A moment, by the railway troop,

As o'er some bolder height they speed,

By circumspeet ambition,

By errant gain,

By feasters and the frivolous,—

Recallest us,

And makest sane.

Mute orator! well skilled to plead,

And send conviction without phrase,

Thou dost succor and remede

The shortness of our days,

And promise, on thy Founder's truth,

Long morrow to this mortal youth.

FABLE.

THE mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter ‘Little Prig;

Bun replied,

‘You are doubtless very big;

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together,

To make up a year

And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I'im not so large as you,

You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry.

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut’

ODE.
INSCRIBED TO W. H. CHANNING.

THOUGH loath to grieve

The evil time's sole patriot,

I cannot leave

My honied thought

For the priest's cant,

Or statesman's rant.

If I refuse

My study for their politique,

Which at the best is trick,

The angry Muse

Puts confusion in my brain.

But who is he that prates

Of the culture of mankind,

Of better arts and life?

Go, blindworm, go,

Behold the famous States

Harrying Mexico

With rifle and with knife!

Or who, with accent bolder,

Dare praise the freedom-loving mountaineer?

I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook!

And in thy valleys, Agiochook!

The jackals of the negro-holder.

The God who made New Hampshire

Taunted the lofty land

With little men;—

Small bat and wren

House in the oak:—

If earth-fire cleave

The upheaved land, and bury the folk,

The southern crocodile would grieve.

Virtue palters; Right is hence;

Freedom praised, but hid;

Funeral eloquence

Rattles the coffin-lid.

What boots thy zeal,

O glowing friend,

That would indignant rend

The northland from the south?

Wherefore? to what good end?

Boston Bay and Bunker Hill

Would serve things still;—

Things are of the snake.

The horseman serves the horse,

The neatherd serves the neat,

The merchant serves the purse,

The eater serves his meat;

'T is the day of the chattel,

Web to weave, and corn to grind;

Things are in the saddle,

And ride mankind.

There are two laws discrete,

Not reconciled,—

Law for man, and law for thing!

The last builds town and fleet,

But it runs wild,

And doth the man unking.

'T is fit the forest fall,

The steep be graded,

The mountain tunnelled,

The sand shaded,

The orchard planted,

The glebe tilled,

The prairie granted,

The steamer built

Let man serve law for man;

Live for friendship, live for love,

For truth's and harmony's behoof;

The state may follow how it can,

As Olympus follows Jove.

Yet do not I implore

The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods,

Nor bid the unwilling senator

Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes

Every one to his chosen work;—

Foolish hands may mix and mar;,

Wise and sure the issues are.

Round they roll till dark is light,

Sex to sex, and even to odd;—

The over-god

Who marries Right to Might,

Who peoples, unpeoples,—

He who exterminates

Races by stronger races,

Black by white faces,—

knows to bring honey

Out of the lion;

Grafts gentlest scion

On pirate and Turk.

The Cossack eats Poland,

Like stolen fruit;

Her last noble is ruined,

Her last poet mute:

Straight, into double band

The victors divide;

Half for freedom strike and stand;—

The astonished Muse finds thousands at her side,

ASTRÆ

EACH the herald is who wrote

His rank, and quartered his own coat.

There is no king nor sovereign state

That can fix a hero's rate;

Each to all is venerable,

Cap-a-pie invulnerable,

Until he write, where all eyes rest,

Slave or master on his breast.

I saw men go up and down,

In the country and the town,

With this tablet on their neck,—

‘Judgment and a judge we seek.’

Not to monarchs they repair,

Nor to learned jurist's chair;

But they hurry to their peers,

To their kinsfolk and their dears;

Louder than with speech they pray,—

‘What am I? companion, say.’

And the friend not hesitates

To assign just place and mates;

Answers not in word or letter,

Yet is understood the better;

Each to each a looking-glass,

Reflects his figure that doth pass.

Every wayfarer he meets

What himself declared repeats,

What himself confessed records,

Sentences him in his words;

The form is his own corporal form,

And his thought the penal worm.

Yet shine forever virgin minds,

Loved by stars and purest winds,

Which, o'er passion throned sedate,

Have not hazarded their state;

Disconcert the searching spy,

Rendering to a curious eye

The durance of a granite ledge.

To those who gaze from the sea's edge

It is there for benefit;

It is there for purging light;,

There for purifying storms;

And its depths reflect all forms;

It cannot parley with the mean,—

Pure by impure is not seen.

For there's no sequestered grot,

Lone mountain tarn, or isle forgot,

But Justice, journeying in the sphere,

Daily stoops to harbor there.

ÉTIENNE DE LA BOÉCE.

I SERVE you not, if you I follow,

Shadowlike, o'er hill and hollow;

And bend my fancy to your leading,

All too nimble for my treading.

When the pilgrimage is done,

And we've the landscape overrun,

I am bitter, vacant, thwarted,

And your heart is unsupported.

Vainly valiant, you have missed

The manhood that should yours resist,—

Its complement; but if I could,

In severe or cordial mood,

Lead you rightly to my altar,

Where the wisest Muses falter,

And worship that world-warming spark

Which dazzles me in midnight dark,

Equalizing small and large,

While the soul it doth surcharge,

Till the poor is wealthy grown,

And the hermit never alone,—

The traveller and the road seem one

With the errand to be done,—

That were a man's and lover's part,

That were Freedom's whitest chart.

COMPENSATION.

WHY should I keep holiday

When other men have none?

Why but because, when these are gay,

I sit and mourn alone?

And why, when mirth unseals all tongues,

Should mine alone be dumb?

Ah! late I spoke to silent throngs,

And now their hour is come.

FORBEARANCE.

HAST thou named all the birds without a gun?

Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk?

At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?

Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?

And loved so well a high behavior,

In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,

Nobility more nobly to repay?

O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!

THE PARK.

THE prosperous and beautiful

To me seem not to wear

The yoke of conscience masterful,

Which galls me everywhere.

I cannot shake off the god;

On my neck he makes his seat;

I look at my face in the glass,—

My eyes his eyeballs meet.

Enchanters! enchantresses!

Your gold makes you seem wise;

The morning mist within your grounds

More proudly rolls, more softly lies.

Yet spake yon purple mountain,

Yet said yon ancient wood,

That Night or Day, that Love or Crime,

Leads all souls to the Good.

FORERUNNERS.

LONG I followed happy guides,

I could never reach their sides;

Their step is forth, and, ere the day

Breaks up their leaguer, and away.

Keen my sense, my heart was young,

Right good-will my sinews strung,

But no speed of mine avails

To hunt upon their shining trails.

On and away, their hasting feet

Make the morning proud and sweet;

Flowers they strew,—I catch the scent;

Or tone of silver instrument

Leaves on the wind melodious trace;

Yet I could never see their face.

On eastern hills I see their smokes,

Mixed with mist by distant lochs.

I met many travellers

Who the road had surely kept;

They saw not my fine revellers,—

These had crossed them while they slept.

Some had heard their fair report,

In the country or the court.

Fleetest couriers alive

Never yet could once arrive,

As they went or they returned,

At the house where these sojourned.

Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,

Though they are not overtaken;

In sleep their jubilant troop is near,—

I tuneful voices overhear;

It may be in wood or waste,—

At unawares 't is come and past.

Their near camp my spirit knows

By signs gracious as rainbows.

I thenceforward and long after

Listen for their harp-like laughter,

And carry in my heart, for days,

Peace that hallows rudest ways.

SURSUM CORDA.

SEEK not the spirit, if it hide

Inexorable to thy zeal:

Trembler, do not whine and chide:

Art thou not also real?

Stoop not then to poor excuse;

Turn on the accuser roundly; say,

‘Here am I, here will I abide

Forever to myself soothfast;

Go thou, sweet Heaven, or at thy pleasure stay!’

Already Heaven with thee its lot has cast,

For only it can absolutely deal.

ODE TO BEAUTY.

WHO gave thee, O Beauty,

The keys of this breast,—

Too credulous lover

Of blest and unblest?

Say, when in lapsed ages

Thee knew I of old?

Or what was the service

For which I was sold?

When first my eyes saw thee,

I found me thy thrall,

By magical drawings,

Sweet tyrant of all!

I drank at thy fountain

False waters of thirst;

Thou intimate stranger,

Thou latest and first!

Thy dangerous glances

Make women of men;

New-born, we are melting

Into nature again.

Lavish, lavish promiser,

Nigh persuading gods to err!

Guest of million painted forms,

Which in turn thy glory warms!

The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,

The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc,

The swinging spider's silver line,

The ruby of the drop of wine,

The shining pebble of the pond,

Thou inscribest with a bond,

In thy momentary play,

Would bankrupt nature to repay.

Ah, what avails it

To hide or to shun

Whom the Infinite One

Hath granted his throne?

The heaven high over

Is the deep's lover;

The sun and sea,

Informed by thee,

Before me run

And draw me on,

Yet fly me still,

As Fate refuses

To me the heart Fate for me chooses.

Is it that my opulent soul

Was mingled from the generous whole;

Sea-valleys and the deep of skies

Furnished several supplies;

And the sands whereof I'm made

Draw me to them, self-betrayed?

I turn the proud portfolio

Which holds the grand designs

Of Salvator, of Guercino,

And Piranesi's lines.

I hear the lofty pæans

Of the masters of the shell,

Who heard the starry music

And recount the numbers well;

Olympian bards who sung

Divine Ideas below,

Which always find us young

And always keep us so.

Oft, in streets or humblest places,

I detect far-wandered graces,

Which, from Eden wide astray,

In lowly homes have lost their way.

Thee gliding through the sea of form,

Like the lightning through the storm,

Somewhat not to be possessed,

Somewhat not to be caressed,

No feet so fleet could ever find,

No perfect form could ever bind.

Thou eternal fugitive,

Hovering over all that live,

Quick and skilful to inspire

Sweet, extravagant desire,

Starry space and lily-bell

Filling with thy roseate smell,

Wilt not give the lips to taste

Of the nectar which thou hast

All that's good and great with thee

Works in close conspiracy;

Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely

To report thy features only,

And the cold and purple morning

Itself with thoughts of thee adorning;

The leafy dell, the city mart,

Equal trophies of thine art;

E'en the flowing azure air

Thou hast touched for my despair;

And, if I languish into dreams,

Again I meet the ardent beams.

Queen of things! I dare not die

In Being's deeps past ear and eye;

Lest there I find the same deceive,

And be the sport of Fate forever.

Dread Power, but dear! if God thou be,

Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me!

GIVE ALL TO LOVE.

GIVE all to love;

Obey thy heart

Friends, kindred, days,

Estate, good-fame,

Plans, credit and the Muse,—

Nothing refuse.

'T is a brave master;

Let it have scope:

Follow it utterly,

Hope beyond hope:

High and more high

It dives into noon,

With wing unspent,

Untold intent:

But it is a god,

Knows its own path

And the outlets of the sky.

It was never for the mean;

It requireth courage stout.

Souls above doubt,

Valor unbending,

It will reward,—

They shall return

More than they were,

And ever ascending.

Leave all for love;

Yet, hear me, yet,

One word more thy heart behoved,

One pulse more of firm endeavor,—

Keep thee to-day,

To-morrow, forever,

Free as an Arab

Of thy beloved.

Cling with life to the maid;

But when the surprise,

First vague shadow of surmise

Flits across her bosom young,

Of a joy apart from thee,

Free be she, fancy-free;

Nor thou detain her vesture's hem,

Nor the palest rose she flung

From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself,

As a self of purer clay,

Though her parting dims the day,

Stealing grace from all alive;

Heartily know.

When half-gods go,

The gods arrive.

TO ELLEN
AT THE SOUTH.

THE green grass is bowing,

The morning wind is in it;

'T is a tune worth thy knowing,

Though it change every minute.

'T is a tune of the Spring;

Every year plays it over

To the robin on the wing,

And to the pausing lover.

O'er ten thousand, thousand acres,

Goes light the nimble zephyr;

The Flowers—tiny sect of Shakers—

Worship him ever.

Hark to the winning sound!

They summon thee, dearest,—

Saying, ‘We have dressed for thee the ground,

Nor yet thou appearest.

‘O hasten;’ 't is our time,

Ere yet the red Summer

Scorch our delicate prime,

Loved of bee,—the tawny hummer.

‘O pride of thy race!

Sad, in sooth, it were to ours,

If our brief tribe miss thy face,

We poor New England flowers.

‘Fairest, choose the fairest members

Of our lithe society;

June's glories and September's

Show our love and piety.

'Thou shalt command us all,—

April's cowslip, summer's clover,

To the gentian in the fall,

Blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover.

‘O come, then, quickly come!

We are budding, we are blowing;

And the wind that we perfume

Sings a tune that's worth the knowing.’

TO EVA.

O FAIR and stately maid, whose eyes

Were kindled in the upper skies

At the same torch that lighted mine;

For so I must interpret still

Thy sweet dominion o'er my will,

A sympathy divine.

Ah! let me blameless gaze upon

Features that seem at heart my own;

Nor fear those watchful sentinels,

Who charm the more their glance forbids,

Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids,

With fire that draws while it repels.

THE AMULET.

YOUR picture smiles as first it smiled;

The ring you gave is still the same;

Your letter tells, O changing child!

No tidings since it came.

Give me an amulet

That keeps intelligence with you,—

Red when you love, and rosier red,

And when you love not, pale and blue.

Alas! that neither bonds nor vows

Can certify possession;

Torments me still the fear that love

Died in its last expression.

thine eyes still shined.

THINE eyes still shined for me, though far

I lonely roved the land or sea:

As I behold yon evening star,

Which yet beholds not me.

This morn I climbed the misty hill

And roamed the pastures through;

How danced thy form before my path

Amidst the deep-eyed dew!

When the redbird spread his sable wing,

And showed his side of flame;

When the rosebud ripened to the rose,

In both I read thy name.

EROS.

THE sense of the world is short,—

Long and various the report,—

To love and be beloved;

Men and gods have not outlearned it;

And, how oft soe'er they've turned it,

Not to be improved.

HERMIONE.

ON a mound an Arab lay,

And sung his sweet regrets

And told his amulets:

The summer bird

His sorrow heard,

And, when he heaved a sigh profound,

The sympathetic swallow swept the ground,

‘If it be, as they said, she was not fair,

Beauty's not beautiful to me,

But sceptred genius, aye inorbed,

Culminating in her sphere.

This Hermione absorbed

The lustre of the land and ocean,

Hills and islands, cloud and tree,

In her form and motion.

‘I ask no bauble miniature,

Nor ringlets dead

Shorn from her comely head,

Now that morning not disdains

Mountains and the misty plains

Her colossal portraiture;

They her heralds be,

Steeped in her quality,

And singers of her fame

Who is their Muse and dame.

‘Higher, dear swallows! mind not what I say.

Ah! heedless how the weak are strong,

Say, was it just,

In thee to frame, in me to trust,

Thou to the Syrian couldst belong?

I am of a lineage

That each for each doth fast engage;

In old Bassora's schools, I seemed

Hermit vowed to books and gloom,—

Ill-bestead for gay bridegroom.

I was by thy touch redeemed;

When thy meteor glances came,

We talked at large of worldly fate,

And drew truly every trait.

Once I dwelt apar,

Now I live with all;

As shepherd's lamp on far hill-side

Seems, by the traveller espied,

A door into the mountain heart,

So didst thou quarry and unlock

Highways for me through the rock.

‘Now, deceived, thou wanderest

In strange lands unblest;

And my kindred come to soothe me.

Southwind is my next of blood;

He is come through fragrant wood,

Drugged with spice from climates warm,

And in every twinkling glade,

And twilight nook,

Unveils thy form.

Out of the forest way

Forth paced it yesterday;

And when I sat by the watercourse,

Watching the daylight fade,

It throbbed up from the brook.

‘River and rose and crag and bird,

Frost and sun and eldest night,

To me their aid preferred,

To me their comfort plight;—

“Courage! we are thine allies,

And with this hint be wise,—

The chains of kind

The distant bind;

Deed thou doest she must do,

Above her will, be true;

And, in her strict resort

To winds and waterfalls

And autumn's sunlit festivals,

To music, and to music's thought,

Inextricably bound,

She shall find thee, and be found.

Follow not her flying feet;

Come to us herself to meet.”’

INITIAL, DÆMONIC, AND CELESTIAL LOVE

THE INITIAL LOVE.

VENUS, when her son was lost,

Cried him up and down the coast,

In hamlets, palaces and parks,

And told the truant by his marks,—

Golden curls, and quiver and bow.

This befell how long ago!

Time and tide are strangely changed,

Men and manners much deranged:

None will now find Cupid latent

By this foolish antique patent.

He came late along the waste,

Shod like a traveller for haste;

With malice dared me to proclaim him

That the maids and boys might name him.

Boy no more, he wears all coats,

Frocks and blouses, capes, capotes;

He bears no bow, or quiver, or wand,

Nor chaplet on his head or hand.

Leave his weeds and heed his eyes,—

All the rest he can disguise.

In the pit of his eye's a spark

Would bring back day if it were dark;

And, if I tell you all my thought,

Though I comprehend it not,

In those unfathomable orbs

Every function he absorbs;

Doth eat, and drink, and fish, and shoot,

And write, and reason, and compute,

And ride, and run, and have, and hold,

And whine, and flatter, and regret,

And kiss, and couple, and beget,

By those roving eyeballs bold.

Undaunted are their courage,

Right Cossacks in their forages;

Fleeter they than any creature,—

They are his steeds, and not his feature;

Inquisitive, and fierce, and fasting,

Restless, predatory, hasting;

And they pounce on other eyes

As lions on their prey;

And round their circles is writ,

Plainer than the day,

Underneath, within, above,—

Love—love—love—love.

He lives in his eyes;

There doth digest, and work, and spin,

And buy, and sell, and lose, and win;

He rolls them with delighted motion,

Joy-tides swell their mimic ocean.

Yet holds he them with tortest rein,

That they may seize and entertain

The glance that to their glance opposes,

Like fiery honey sucked from roses.

He palmistry can understand,

Imbibing virtue by his hand

As if it were a living root;

The pulse of hands will make him mute;

With all his force he gathers balms

Into those wise, thrilling palms.

Cupid is a casuist,

A mystic and a cabalist,—

Can your lurking thought surprise,

And interpret your device.

He is versed in occult science,

In magic and in clairvoyance,

Oft he keeps his fine ear strained,

And Reason on her tiptoe pained

For aëry intelligence,

And for strange coincidence.

But it touches his quick heart

When Fate by omens takes his part,

And chance-dropped hints from Nature's sphere

Deeply soothe his anxious ear.

Heralds high before him run;

He has ushers many a one;

He spreads his welcome where he goes,

And touches all things with his rose.

All things wait for and divine him,—

How shall I dare to malign him,

Or accuse the god of sport?

I must end my true report,

Painting him from head to foot,

In as far as I took note,

Trusting well the matchless power

Of this young-eyed emperor

Will clear his fame from every cloud

With the bards and with the crowd.

He is wilful, mutable,

Shy, untamed, inscrutable,

Swifter-fashioned than the fairies,

Substance mixed of pure contraries;

His vice some elder virtue's token,

And his good is evil-spoken.

Failing sometimes of his own,

He is headstrong and alone;

He affects the wood and wild,

Like a flower-hunting child;

Buries himself in summer waves,

In trees, with beasts, in mines and caves,

Loves nature like a horned cow,

Bird, or deer, or caribou.

Shun him, nymphs, on the fleet horses!

He has a total world of wit;

O how wise are his discourses!

But he is the arch-hypocrite,

And, through all science and all art,

Seeks alone his counterpart.

He is a Pundit of the East,

He is an augur and a priest,

And his soul will melt in prayer,

But word and wisdom is a snare;

Corrupted by the present toy

He follows joy, and only joy.

There is no mask but he will wear;

He invented oaths to swear;

He paints, he carves, he chants, he prays,

And holds all stars in his embrace.

He takes a sovran privilege

Not allowed to any liege;

For Cupid goes behind all law,

And right into himself does draw;

For he is sovereignly allied,—

Heaven's oldest blood flows in his side,—

And interchangeably at one

With every king on every throne,

That no god dare say him nay,

Or see the fault, or seen betray:

He has the Muses by the heart,

And the stern Parcæ on his part.

His many signs cannot be told;

He has not one mode, but manifold,

Many fashions and addresses,

Piques, reproaches, hurts, caresses.

He will preach like a friar,

And jump like Harlequin;

He will read like a crier,

And fight like a Paladin.

Boundless is his memory;

Plans immense his term prolong;

He is not of counted age,

Meaning always to be young.

And his wish is intimacy,

Intimater intimacy,

And a stricter privacy;

The impossible shall yet be done,

And, being two, shall still be one.

As the wave breaks to foam on shelves,

Then runs into a wave again,

So lovers melt their sundered selves,

Yet melted would be twain

ii.

THE DÆMONIC LOVE.

MAN was made of social earth,

Child and brother from his birth,

Tethered by a liquid cord

Of blood through veins of kindred poured.

Next his heart the fireside band

Of mother, father, sister, stand;

Names from awful childhood heard

Throbs of a wild religion stirred;—

Virtue, to love, to hate them, vice;

Till dangerous Beauty came, at last,

Till Beauty came to snap all ties;

The maid, abolishing the past,

With lotus wine obliterates

Dear memory's stone-incarved traits,

And, by herself, supplants alone

Friends year by year more inly known.

When her calm eyes opened bright,

All else grew foreign in their light.

It was ever the self-same tale,

The first experience will not fail;

Only two in the garden walked,

And with snake and seraph talked.

Close, close to men,

Like undulating layer of air,

Right above their heads,

The potent plain of Dæmons spreads.

Stands to each human soul its own,

For watch and ward and furtherance

In the snares of Nature's dance;

And the lustre and the grace

To fascinate each youthful heart,

Beaming from its counterpart,

Translucent through the mortal covers,

Is the Dæmon's form and face.

To and fro the Genius hies,—

A gleam which plays and hovers

Over the maiden's head,

And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes.

Unknown, albeit lying near,

To men, the path to the Dæmon sphere;

And they that swiftly come and go

Leave no track on the heavenly snow.

Sometimes the airy synod bends,

And the mighty choir descends,

And the brains of men thenceforth,

In crowded and in still resorts,

Teem with unwonted thoughts:

As, when a shower of meteors

Cross the orbit of the earth,

And, lit by fringent air,

Blaze near and far,

Mortals deem the planets bright

Have slipped their sacred bars,

And the lone seaman all the night

Sails, astonished, amid stars.

Beauty of a richer vein,

Graces of a subtler strain,

Unto men these moonmen lend,

And our shrinking sky extend.

So is man's narrow path

By strength and terror skirted;

Also (from the song the wrath

Of the Genii be averted!

The Muse the truth uncolored speaking

The Dæmons are self-seeking:

Their fierce and limitary will

Draws men to their likeness still.

The erring painter made Love blind,—

Highest Love who shines on all;

Him, radiant, sharpest-sighted god,

None can bewilder;

Whose eyes pierce

The universe,

Path-finder, road-builder,

Mediator, royal giver;

Rightly seeing, rightly seen,

Of joyful and transparent mien

'T is a sparkle passing

From each to each, from thee to me,

To and fro perpetually;

Sharing all, daring all,

Levelling, displacing

Each obstruction, it unites

Equals remote, and seeming opposites.

And ever and forever Love

Delights to build a road:

Unheeded Danger near him strides,

Love laughs, and on a lion rides.

But Cupid wears another face,

Born into Dæmons less divine:

His roses bleach apace,

His nectar smacks of wine.

The Dæmon ever builds a wall,

Himself encloses and includes,

Solitude in solitudes:

In like sort his love doth fall.

He doth elect

The beautiful and fortunate,

And the sons of intellect,

And the souls of ample fate,

Who the Future's gates unbar,—

Minions of the Morning Star.

In his prowess he exults,

And the multitude insults.

His impatient looks devour

Oft the humble and the poor;

And, seeing his eye glare,

They drop their few pale flowers,

Gathered with hope to please,

Along the mountain towers,—

Lose courage, and despair.

He will never be gainsaid,—

Pitiless, will not be stayed;

His hot tyranny

Burns up every other tie.

Therefore comes an hour from Jove

Which his ruthless will defies,

And the dogs of Fate unties.

Shiver the palaces of glass;

Shrivel the rainbow-colored walls,

Where in bright Art each god and sibyl dwelt

Secure as in the zodiac's belt;

And the galleries and halls,

Wherein every siren sung,

Like a meteor pass.

For this fortune wanted root

In the core of God's abysm,—

Was a weed of self and schism;

And ever the Dæmonic Love

Is the ancestor of wars

And the parent of remorse.

iii.

THE CELESTIAL LOVE.

BUT God said,

‘I will have a purer gift;

There is smoke in the flame;

New flowerets bring, new prayers uplift,

And love without a name.

Fond children, ye desire

To please each other well;

Another round, a higher,

Ye shall climb on the heavenly stair,

And selfish preference forbear;

And in right deserving,

And without a swerving

Each from your proper state,

Weave roses for your mate.

‘Deep, deep are loving eyes,

Flowed with naphtha fiery sweet;

And the point is paradise,

Where their glances meet:

Their reach shall yet be more profound,

And a vision without bound:

The axis of those eyes sun-clear

Be the axis of the sphere:

So shall the lights ye pour amain

Go, without check or intervals,

Through from the empyrean walls

Unto the same again.’

Higher far into the pure realm,

Over sun and star,

Over the flickering Dæmon film,

Thou must mount for love;

Into vision where all form

In one only form dissolves;

In a region where the wheel

On which all beings ride

Visibly revolves;

Where the starred, eternal worm

Girds the world with bound and term;

Where unlike things are like;

Where good and ill,

And joy and moan,

Melt into one.

There Past, Present, Future, shoot

Triple blossoms from one root;

Substances at base divided,

In their summits are united;

There the holy essence rolls

One through separated souls;

And the sunny Æon sleeps

Folding Nature in its deeps,

And every fair and every good,

Known in part, or known impure,

To men below,

In their archetypes endure.

The race of gods,

Or those we erring own,

Are shadows flitting up and down

In the still abodes.

The circles of that sea are laws

Which publish and which hide the cause.

Pray for a beam

Out of that sphere,

Thee to guide and to redeem.

O, what a load

Of care and toil,

By lying use bestowed,

From his shoulders falls who sees

The true astronomy,

The period of peace.

Counsel which the ages kept

Shall the well-born soul accept.

As the overhanging trees

Fill the lake with images,—

As garment draws the garment's hem,

Men their fortunes bring with them.

By right or wrong,

Lands and goods go to the strong.

Property will brutely draw

Still to the proprietor;

Silver to silver creep and wind,

And kind to kind.

Nor less the eternal poles

Of tendency distribute souls.

There need no vows to bind

Whom not each other seek, but find.

They give and take no pledge or oath,—

Nature is the bond of both:

No prayer persuades, no flattery fawns,—

Their noble meanings are their pawns.

Plain and cold is their address,

Power have they for tenderness;

And, so thoroughly is known

Each other's counsel by his own,

They can parley without meeting;

Need is none of forms of greeting;

They can well communicate

In their innermost estate;

When each the other shall avoid,

Shall each by each be most enjoyed.

Not with scarfs or perfumed gloves

Do these celebrate their loves:

Not by jewels, feasts and savors,

Not by ribbons or by favors,

But by the sun-spark on the sea,

And the cloud-shadow on the lea,

The soothing lapse of morn to mirk,

And the cheerful round of work.

Their cords of love so public are,

They intertwine the farthest star:

The throbbing sea, the quaking earth,

Yield sympathy and signs of mirth;

Is none so high, so mean is none,

But feels and seals this union;

Even the fell Furies are appeased,

The good applaud, the lost are eased.

Love's hearts are faithful, but not fond,

Bound for the just, but not beyond;

Not glad, as the low-loving herd,

Of self in other still preferred,

But they have heartily designed

The benefit of broad mankind.

And they serve men austerely,

After their own genius, clearly,

Without a false humility;

For this is Love's nobility,—

Not to scatter bread and gold,

Goods and raiment bought and sold;

But to hold fast his simple sense,

And speak the speech of innocence.

And with hand and body and blood,

To make his bosom-counsel good.

He that feeds men serveth few;

He serves all who dares be true.

THE APOLOGY.

THINK me not unkind and rude

That I walk alone in grove and glen;

I go to the god of the wood

To fetch his word to men.

Tax not my sloth that I

Fold my arms beside the brook;

Each cloud that floated in the sky

Writes a letter in my book.

Chide me not, laborious band,

For the idle flowers I brought;

Every aster in my hand

Goes home loaded with a thought.

There was never mystery

But 't is figured in the flowers;

Was never secret history

But birds tell it in the bowers.

One harvest from thy field

Homeward brought the oxen strong;

A second crop thine acres yield,

Which I gather in a song.

MERLIN.

THY trivial harp will never please

Or fill my craving ear;

Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,

Free, peremptory, clear.

No jingling serenader's art,

Nor tinkle of piano strings,

Can make the wild blood start

In its mystic springs.

The kingly bard

Must smite the chords rudely and hard.

As with hammer or with mace;

That they may render back

Artful thunder, which conveys

Secrets of the solar track,

Sparks of the supersolar blaze.

Merlin's blows are strokes of fate,

Chiming with the forest tone,

When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;

Chiming with the gasp and moan

Of the ice-imprisoned flood;

With the pulse of manly hearts;

With the voice of orators;

With the din of city arts;

With the cannonade of wars;

With the marches of the brave;

And prayers of might from martyrs' cave.

Great is the art,

Great be the manners, of the bard.

He shall not his brain encumber

With the coil of rhythm and number;

But, leaving rule and pale forethought,

He shall aye climb

For his rhyme.

‘Pass in, pass in,’ the angels say,

‘In to the upper doors,

Nor count compartments of the floors,

But mount to paradise

By the stairway of surprise.’

Blameless master of the games,

King of sport that never shames,

He shall daily joy dispense

Hid in song's sweet influence.

Forms more cheerly live and go,

What time the subtle mind

Sings aloud the tune whereto

Their pulses beat,

And march their feet,

And their members are combined.

By Sybarites beguiled,

He shall no task decline;

Merlin's mighty line

Extremes of nature reconciled,—

Bereaved a tyrant of his will,

And made the lion mild.

Songs can the tempest still,

Scattered on the stormy air,

Mould the year to fair increase,

And bring in poetic peace.

He shall not seek to weave,

In weak, unhappy times,

Efficacious rhymes;

Wait his returning strength.

Bird that from the nadir's floor

To the zenith's top can soar,—

The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length.

Nor profane affect to hit

Or compass that, by meddling wit,

Which only the propitious mind

Publishes when 't is inclined.

There are open hours

When the God's will sallies free,

And the dull idiot might see

The flowing fortunes of a thousand years;—

Sudden, at unawares,

Self-moved, fly-to the doors,

Nor sword of angels could reveal

What they conceal.

MERLIN.

ii.

THE rhyme of the poet

Modulates the king's affairs;

Balance-loving Nature

Made all things in pairs.

To every foot its antipode;

Each color with its counter glowed;

To every tone beat answering tones,

Higher or graver;

Flavor gladly blends with flavor;

Leaf answers leaf upon on the bough;

And match the paired cotyledons.

Hands to hands, and feet to feet,

In one body grooms and brides;

Eldest rite, two married sides

In every mortal meet.

Light's far furnace shines,

Smelting balls and bars,

Forging double stars,

Glittering twins and trines.

The animals are sick with love,

Lovesick with rhyme;

Each with all propitious Time

Into chorus wove.

Like the dancers' ordered band,

Thoughts come also hand in hand;

In equal couples mated,

Or else alternated;

Adding by their mutual gage,

One to other, health and age.

Solitary fancies go

Short-lived wandering to and fro,

Most like to bachelors,

Or an ungiven maid,

Not ancestors,

With no posterity to make the lie afraid,

Or keep truth undecayed.

Perfect-paired as eagle's wings,

Justice is the rhyme of things;

Trade and counting use

The self-same tuneful muse;

And Nemesis,

Who with even matches odd,

Who athwart space redresses

The partial wrong,

Fills the just period,

And finishes the song.

Subtle rhymes, with ruin rife,

Murmur in the house of life,

Sung by the Sisters as they spin;

In perfect time and measure they

Build and unbuild our echoing clay.

As the two twilights of the day

Fold us music-drunken in.

BACCHUS.

BRING me wine, but wine which never grew

In the belly of the grape,

Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through

Under the Andes to the Cape,

Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.

Let its grapes the morn salute

From a nocturnal root,

Which feels the acrid juice

Of Styx and Erebus;

And turns the woe of Night,

By its own craft, to a more rich delight.

We buy ashes for bread;

We buy diluted wine;

Give me of the true,—

Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled

Among the silver hills of heaven

Draw everlasting dew;

Wine of wine,

Blood of the world,

Form of forms, and mould of statures,

That I intoxicated,

And by the draught assimilated,

May float at pleasure through all natures;

The bird-language rightly spell,

And that which roses say so well.

Wine that is shed

Like the torrents of the sun

Up the horizon walls,

Or like the Atlantic streams, which run

When the South Sea calls.

Water and bread,

Food which needs no transmuting,

Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,

Wine which is already man,

Food which teach and reason can.

Wine which Music is,—

Music and wine are one,—

That I, drinking this,

Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;

Kings unborn shall walk with me;

And the poor grass shall plot and plan

What it will do when it is man.

Quickened so, will I unlock

Every crypt of every rock.

I thank the joyful juice

For all I know;—

Winds of remembering

Of the ancient being blow,

And seeming-solid walls of use

Open and flow.

Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;

Retrieve the loss of me and mine!

Vine for vine be antidote,

And the grape requite the lote!

Haste to cure the old despair,—

Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,

The memory of ages quenched;

Give them again to shine;

Let wine repair what this undid;

And where the infection slid,

A dazzling memory revive;

Refresh the faded tints,

Recut the aged prints,

And write my old adventures with the pen

Which on the first day drew,

Upon the tablets blue,

The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.

MEROPS.

WHAT care I, so they stand the same,—

Things of the heavenly mind,—

How long the power to give them name

Tarries yet behind?

Thus far to-day your favors reach,

O fair, appeasing presences!

Ye taught my lips a single speech,

And a thousand silences.

Space grants beyond his fated road

No inch to the god of day;

And copious language still bestowed

One word, no more, to say.

SAADI.

TREES in groves,

Kane in droves,

In ocean sport the scaly herds,

Wedge-like cleave the air the birds,

To northern lakes fly wind-borne ducks,

Browse the mountain sheep in flocks,

Men consort in camp and town,

But the poet dwells alone.

God, who gave to him the lyre,

Of all mortals the desire,

For all breathing men's behoof,

Straitly charged him, ‘Sit aloof;’

Annexed a warning, poets say,

To the bright premium,—

Ever, when twain together play,

Shall the harp be dumb.

Many may come,

But one shall sing;

Two touch the string,

The harp is dumb.

Though there come a million,

Wise Saadi dwells alone.

Yet Saadi loved the race of men,—

No churl, immured in cave or den;

In bower and hall

He wants them all,

Nor can dispense

With Persia for his audience;

They must give ear,

Grow red with joy and white with fear;

Bat he has no companion;

Come ten, or come a million,

Good Saadi dwells alone.

Be thou ware where Saadi dwells;

Wisdom of the gods is he,—

Entertain it reverently.

Gladly round that golden lamp

Sylvan deities encamp,

And simple maids and noble youth

Are welcome to the man of truth.

Most welcome they who need him most,

They feed the spring which they exhaust;

For greater need

Draws better deed:

But, critic, spare thy vanity,

Nor show thy pompous parts,

To vex with odious subtlety

The cheerer of men's hearts.

Sad-eyed Fakirs swiftly say

Endless dirges to decay,

Never in the blaze of light

Lose the shudder of midnight;

Pale at overflowing noon

Hear wolves barking at the moon;

In the bower of dalliance sweet

Hear the far Avenger's feet:

And shake before those awful Powers,

Who in their pride forgive not ours.

Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach:

‘Bard, when thee would Allah teach.

And lift thee to his holy mount,

He sends thee from his bitter fount

Wormwood,—saying, “Go thy ways;

Drink not the Malaga of praise,

But do the deed thy fellows hate,

And compromise thy peaceful state;

Smite the white breasts which thee fed,

Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head

Of them thou shouldst have comforted;

For out of woe and out of crime

Draws the heart a lore sublime.”

And yet it seemeth not to me

That the high gods love tragedy;

For Saadi sat in the sun,

And thanks was his contrition;

For haircloth and for bloody whips,

Had active hands and smiling lips;

And yet his runes he rightly read,

And to his folk his message sped.

Sunshine in his heart transferred

Lighted each transparent word,

And well could honoring Persia learn

What Saadi wished to say;

For Saadi's nightly stars did burn

Brighter than Dschami's day.

Whispered the Muse in Saadi's cot;

‘O gentle Saadi, listen not,

Tempted by thy praise of wit,

Or by thirst and appetite

For the talents not thine own,

To sons of contradiction.

Never, son of eastern morning,

Follow falshood, follow scorning.

Denounce who will, who will deny,

And pile the hills to scale the sky;

Let theist, atheist, pantheist,

Define and wrangle how they list,

Fierce eonserver, fierce destroyer,—

But thou, joy-giver and enjoyer,

Unknowing war, unknowing crime,

Gentle Saadi, mind thy rhyme;

Heed not what the brawlers say,

Heed thou only Saadi's lay.

‘Let the great world bustle on

With war and trade, with camp and town;

A thousand men shall dig and eat;

At forge and furnace thousands sweat;

And thousands sail the purple sea,

And give or take the stroke of war,

Or crowd the market and bazaar;

Oft shall war end, and peace return,

And cities rise where cities burn,

Ere one man my hill shall climb,

Who can turn the golden rhyme.

Let them manage how they may,

Heed thou only Saadi's lay.

Seek the living among the dead,—

Man in man is imprisoned;

Barefooted Dervish is not poor,

If fate unlock his bosom's door,

So that what his eye hath seen

His tongue can paint as bright, as keen;

And what his tender heart hath felt

With equal fire thy heart shalt melt.

For, whom the Muses smile upon,

And touch with soft persuasion,

His words like a storm-wind can bring

Terror and beauty on their wing;

In his every syllable

Lurketh nature veritable;

And though he speak in midnight dark,—

In heaven no star, on earth no spark,—

Yet before the listener's eye

Swims the world in ecstasy,

The forest waves, the morning breaks,

The pastures sleep, ripple the lakes,

Leaves twinkle, flowers like persons be,

And life pulsates in rock or tree.

Saadi, so far thy words shall reach:

Suns rise and set in Saadi's speech!’

And thus to Saadi said the Muse:

‘Eat thou the bread which men refuse;

Flee from the goods which from thee flee;

Seek nothing,—Fortune seeketh thee.

Nor mount, nor dive; all good things keep

The midway of the eternal deep.

Wish not to fill the isles with eyes

To fetch thee birds of paradise:

On thine orchard's edge belong

All the brags of plume and song;

Wise Ali's sunbright sayings pass

For proverbs in the market-place:

Through mountains bored by regal art,

Toil whistles as he drives his cart.

Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind,

A poet or a friend to find:

Behold, he watches at the door!

Behold his shadow on the floor!

Open innumerable doors

The heaven where unveiled Allah pours

The flood of truth, the flood of good,

The Seraph's and the Cherub's food.

Those doors are men: the Pariah hind

Admits thee to the perfect Mind.

Seek not beyond thy cottage wall

Redeemers that can yield thee all:

While thou sittest at thy door

On the desert's yellow floor,

Listening to the gray-haired crones,

Foolish gossips, ancient drones,

Saadi, see! they rise in stature

To the height of mighty Nature,

And the secret stands revealed

Fraudulent Time in vain concealed,—

That blessed gods in servile masks

Plied for thee thy household tasks.’

HOLIDAYS.

FROM fall to spring, the russet acorn,

Fruit beloved of maid and boy,

Lent itself beneath the forest,

To be the children's toy.

Pluck it now! In vain,—thou canst not;

Its root has pierced yon shady mound;

Toy no longer—it has duties;

It is anchored in the ground.

Year by year the rose-lipped maiden,

Playfellow of young and old,

Was frolic sunshine, dear to all men,

More dear to one than mines of gold.

Whither went the lovely hoyden?

Disappeared in blessed wife;

Servant to a wooden cradle,

Living in a baby's life.

Still thon playest;—short vacation

Fate grants each to stand aside;

Now must thou be man and

'T is the turning of the tide.

XENOPHANES.

BY fate, not option, frugal Nature gave

One scent to hyson and to wall-flower,

One sound to pine-groves and to waterfalls,

One aspect to the desert and the lake.

It was her stern necessity: all things

Are of one pattern made; bird, beast and flower,

Song, picture, form, space, thought and character

Deceive us, seeming to be many things,

And are but one. Beheld far off, they part

As God and devil; bring them to the mind,

They dull its edge with their monotony.

To know one element, explore another,

And in the second reappears the first

The specious panorama of a year

But multiplies the image of a day,—

A belt of mirrors round a taper's flame;

And universal Nature, through her vast

And crowded whole, an infinite paroquet,

Repeats one note.

THE DAY'S RATION.

WHEN I was born,

From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice,

Saying, ‘This be thy portion, child; this chalice,

Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily draw

From my great arteries,—nor less, nor more,’

All substances the cunning chemist Time

Melts down into that liquor of my life,—

Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty and disgust.

And whether I am angry or content,

Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt,

All he distils into sidereal wine

And brims my little cup; heedless, alas!

Of all he sheds how little it will hold,

How much runs over on the desert sands.

If a new Muse draw me with splendid ray,

And I uplift myself into its heaven,

The needs of the first sight absorb my blood,

And all the following hours of the day

Drag a ridiculous age.

To-day, when friends approach, and every hour

Brings book, or starbright scroll of genius,

The little cap will hold not a bead more,

And all the costly liquor runs to waste;

Nor gives the jealous lord one diamond drop

So to be husbanded for poorer days.

Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?

Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draught

After the master's sketch fills and o'erfills

My apprehension? Why seek Italy,

Who cannot circumnavigate the sea

Of thoughts and things at home, but still adjourn

The nearest matters for a thousand days?

BLIGHT.

GIVE me truths;

For I am weary of the surfaces,

And die of inanition. If I knew

Only the herbs and simples of the wood,

Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain and agrimony,

Blue-vetch and trillium, hawkweed, sassafras,

Milkweeds and murky brakes, quaint pipes and sundew,

And rare and virtuous roots, which in these woods

Draw untold juices from the common earth,

Untold, unknown, and I could surely spell

Their fragrance, and their chemistry apply

By sweet affinities to human flesh,

Driving the foe and stablishing the friend,—

O, that were much, and I could be a part

Of the round day, related to the sun

And planted world, and full executor

Of their imperfect functions.

But these young scholars, who invade our hills,

Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,

And travelling often in the cut he makes,

Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,

And all their botany is Latin names.

The old men studied magic in the flowers,

And human fortunes in astronomy,

And an omnipotence in chemistry,

Preferring things to names, for these were men,

Were unitarians of the united world,

And, wheresoever their clear eye-beams fell,

They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes

Are armed, but we are strangers to the stars,

And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,

And strangers to the plant and to the mine.

The injured elements say, ‘Not in us;’

And night and day, ocean and continent,

Fire, plant and mineral say, ‘Not in us;’

And haughtily return us stare for stare.

For we invade them impiously for gain;

We devastate them unreligiously,

And coldly ask their pottage, not their love.

Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us

Only what to our griping toil is due;

But the sweet affluence of love and song,

The rich results of the divine consents

Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover,

The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld;

And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves

And pirates of the universe, shut out

Daily to a more thin and outward rind,

Turn pale and starve. Therefore, to our sick eyes,

The stunted trees look sick, the summer short,

Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our hay,

And nothing thrives to reach its natural term;

And life, shorn of its venerable length,

Even at its greatest space is a defeat,

And dies in anger that it was a dupe;

And, in its highest noon and wantonnes;

Is early frugal, like a beggar's child;

Even in the hot pursuit of the best aims

And prizes of ambition, checks its hand,

Like Alpine cataracts frozen as they leaped,

Chilled with a miserly comparison

Of the toy's purchase with the length of life.

MUSKETAQUID.

BECAUSE I was content with these poor fields,

Low, open meads, slender and sluggish streams,

And found a home in haunts which others scorned,

The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,

And granted me the freedom of their state,

And in their secret senate have prevailed

With the dear, dangerous lords that rule our life,

Made moon and planets parties to their bond,

And through my rock-like, solitary wont

Shot million rays of thought and tenderness.

For me, in showers, in sweeping showers, the Spring

Visits the valley;—break away the clouds,—

I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,

And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.

Sparrows far off, and nearer, April's bird,

Blue-coated,—flying before from tree to tree,

Courageous sing a delicate overture

To lead the tardy concert of the year.

Onward and nearer rides the sun of May;

And wide around, the marriage of the plants

Is sweetly solemnized. Then flows amain

The surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,

Hollow and lake, hill-side and pine arcade,

Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliff

Has thousand faces in a thousand hours.

Beneath low hills, in the broad interval

Through which at will our Indian rivulet

Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,

Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies

Here in pine houses built of new-fallen trees,

Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.

Traveller, to thee, perchance, a tedious road,

Or, it may be, a picture; to these men,

The landscape is an armory of powers,

Which, one by one, they know to draw and use

They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work;

They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,

And, like the chemist mid his loaded jars,

Draw from each stratum its adapted use

To drug their crops or weapon their arts withal.

They turn the frost upon their chemic heap,

They set the wind to winnow pulse and grain,

They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime,

And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow,

Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods

O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,

They fight the elements with elements,

(That one would say, meadow and forest walked,

Transmuted in these men to rule their like,)

And by the order in the field disclose

The order regnant in the yeoman's brain.

What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,

I followed in small copy in my acre;

For there's no rood has not a star above it;

The cordial quality of pear or plum

Ascends as gladly in a single tree

As in broad orchards resonant with bees;

And every atom poises for itself,

And for the whole.

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