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Nor knew her beauty's best attire

Was woven still by the snow-white quire.

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 burns;

I inhaled the violet's breath;

Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Above me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and 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.


KNOWS he who tills this lonely deld,

To reap its scanty corn,

What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?

In the long sunny afternoon
The plain was full of ghosts;
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.

The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood

As when my brothers long ago

Came with me to the wood.

But they are gone,-the holy ones
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.

My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.

They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,

They treated Nature as they would.

They coloured the horizon round,

Stars flamed and faded as they bade, All echoes hearkened for their sound, They made the woodlands glad or mad.

I touch this flower of silken leaf

Which once our childhood knew, Its soft leaves wound me with a grief Whose balsam never grew.

Hearken to yon pine-warbler
Singing aloft on the tree;

Hearest thou, O traveller!

What he singeth to me?

Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine

Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.

"Go, lonely man," it saith;

"They loved thee from their birth; Their hands were pure, and pure their faith, There are no such hearts on earth.

"Ye drew one mother's milk, One chamber held ye all; A very tender history

Did in your childhood fall.

"Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent organ loudest chants
The master's requiem."


THANKS to the morning light,
Thanks to the seething 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 'tis 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 parlour 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 help 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 hit the secret,
Would hang his head for shame.
But 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-colour

From him that sends the dream.

For Destiny does not like

To yield to men the helm,

And 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 oifts—
But ours is not allowed.

He is no churl or trifler,
And his viceroy is none,
Of genius sire and son;
And his 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.

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