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Flown to Italy from Greece,
Seethed in mists of Penmanmaur, Taught by Plinlimmon's Druid power, England's genius filled all measure Of heart and soul, of strength and pleasure, Gave to the mind its emperor, And life was larger than before: Nor sequent centuries could hit Orbit and sum of Shakspeare's wit. The men who lived with him became Poets, for the air was fame.
Far in the North, where polar night Holds in check the frolic light, In trance upborne past mortal goal The Swede Emanuel leads the soul. Through snows above, mines underground, The inks of Erebus he found; Rehearsed to men the damned wails On which the seraph music sails. In spirit-worlds he trod alone, But walked the earth unmarked, unknown. The near by-stander caught no sound, Yet they who listened far aloof
Heard rendings of the skyey roof,
In newer days of war and trade,
So bloom the unfading petals five, And verses that all verse outlive.
SONG OF NATURE. MINE are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space, The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days. 1 hide in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song, I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.
No tribes my house can fill;
And pour the deluge still;
Gathering along the centuries From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.
And many a thousand summers
My apples ripened well,
With firmer glory fell.
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The planting of the coal.
And broken stars I drew,
I formed the world anew;
Tricked out in star and flower,
They swathed their too-much power. Time and thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well; They boiled the sea, and baked the layers
Of granite, marl, and shell. But he, the man-child glorious,
Where tarries he the while? The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.
Forthright my planets roll,
The summit of the whole.
Will never my winds go sleep in the west? Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?
Too slow the rainbow fades,
My leaves and my cascades;
I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played; What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade? I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait; His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate. Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand; Made one of day, and one of night,
And one of the salt sea-sand.
And one by Avon stream,
And one in the Academe.
And bards o'er kings to rule;-
The cup was never full.
And mix the bowl again;
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.
Blend, ripen race on race;
Of all the zones, and countless days.
My oldest force is good as new; And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.
TWO RIVERS. Thy summer voice, Musketaquit,
Repeats the music of the rain; But sweeter rivers pulsing flit
Through thee, as thou through Concord Plain. Thou in thy narrow banks art pent:
The stream I love unbounded goes Through flood and sea and firmament;
Through light, through life, it forward flows. I see the inundation sweet,
I hear the spending of the stream Through years, through men, through nature
fleet, Through passion, thought, through power and
Musketaquit, a goblin strong,
Of shard and fint makes jewels gay; They lose their grief who hear his song,
And where he winds is the day of day.
So forth and brighter fares my stream,
Who drinks it shall not thirst again; No darkness stains its equal gleam,
And ages drop in it like rain.
It is time to be old,