The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, Here was this atom in full breath, I greeted loud my little savior, 40 50 You pet! what dost here? and what for? The winds shall sing their dead-march old, 20 Why are not diamonds black and gray, The snow is no ignoble shroud, The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. Softly, but this way fate was pointing, This poet, though he live apart, 30 Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, perched on the nearest bough, flew down into the snow, rested there two seconds, then up again just over my head, and busied himself on the dead bark. I whistled to him through my teeth, and (I think, in response) he began at once to whistle. I promised him crumbs, and must not go again to these woods without them. I suppose the best food to carry would be the meat of shagbarks or Castile nuts. Thoreau tells me that they are very sociable with wood-choppers, and will take crumbs from their hands. (Journal, March 3, 1862.) Compare Holmes's characteristic comment on this poem, in his Pages from an Old Volume of Life: The moral of the poem is as heroic as the verse is exquisite; but we must not forget the non-conducting quality of fur and feathers, and remember, if we are at all delicate, to go Wrapped in our virtue, and a good surtout, by way of additional security.' For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, I think old Cæsar must have heard I, who dreamed not when I came here Now hear thee say in Roman key, 1862. BOSTON HYMN 100 1862. FREEDOM all winged expands, Nor perches in a narrow place; 30 Whose dark sky sheds the snowflake down, The snowflake is her banner's star, She will not refuse to dwell Hid from men of Northern brain, For freedom he will strike and strive, III IN an age of fops and toys, 40 60 When Duty whispers low, Thou must, The youth replies, I can.1 IV Он, well for the fortunate soul Yet happier he whose inward sight, But best befriended of the God Heeds not the darkness and the dread, And the sweet heaven his deed secures. 80 90 100 110 1 These lines, a moment after they were written, seemed as if they had been carved on marble for a thousand years. (HOLMES, Life of Emerson.) Compare Emerson's Address at the Dedication of the Soldiers' Monument in Concord,' especially the paragraph beginning: All sorts of men went to the war; and his Harvard Commemoration Speech, July 21, 1865.' 2 Emerson wrote to Carlyle, May 14, 1846: 'I, too, have a new plaything, the best I ever had, a woodlot. Last fall I bought a piece of more than forty acres, on the border of a little lake half a mile wide and more, called Walden Pond; a place to which my feet have for years been accustomed to bring me once or twice a week at all seasons.' See the whole letter, in the Carlyle-Emerson Correspondence, vol. ii, pp. 123–125. Canst thou copy in verse one chime Wonderful verse of the gods, Ever the words of the gods resound; Wandering voices in the air When the shadow fell on the lake, Air-bells of fortune that shine and break, But the meanings cleave to the lake, Cannot be carried in book or urn; Go thy ways now, come later back, On waves and hedges still they burn. These the fates of men forecast, TERMINUS1 Ir is time to be old, To take in sail: 1866. In the last days of the year 1866, when I was returning from a long stay in the Western States, I met my father in New York just starting for his usual win Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said: No more! No farther shoot Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root. Fancy departs: no more invent; Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There's not enough for this and that, Not the less revere the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Still plan and smile, And, - fault of novel germs, Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, The needful sinew stark as once, As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed.' 1866. 10 20 30 40 1867. ter lecturing trip, in those days extending beyond the Mississippi. We spent the night together at the St. Denis Hotel, and as we sat by the fire, he read me two or three of his poems for the new May-Day volume, No among them 'Terminus.' It almost startled me. thought of his ageing had ever come to me, and there he sat, with no apparent abatement of bodily vigor, and young in spirit, recognizing with serene acquiescence his failing forces; I think he smiled as he read. He recognized, as none of us did, that his working days were nearly done. They lasted about five years longer, although he lived, in comfortable health, yet ten years beyond those of his activity. Almost at the time when he wrote Terminus' he wrote in his journal: - 'Within I do not find wrinkles and used heart, but unspent youth.' (E. W. EMERSON, in the Centenary Edition.) |