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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,
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
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
In the long sunny afternoon
The winding Concord gleamed below,
As when my brothers long ago
Came with me to the wood.
But they are gone,-the holy ones
My good, my noble, in their prime,
They took this valley for their toy,
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
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
"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 WORLD SOUL.
THANKS to the morning light,
To the boy with his games undaunted,
Cities of proud hotels,
Houses of rich and great,
Vice nestles in your chambers,
Beneath your roofs of slate.
The politics are base,
The letters do not cheer,
And 'tis far in the deeps of history-
Yet there in the parlour sits
The inevitable morning
Finds them who in cellars be;
And be sure the all-loving Nature
Yon ridge of purple landscape,
Yon sky between the walls,
In scanty intervals.
Alas, the sprite that haunts us
It whispers of the glorious gods,
If but one hero knew it,
The world would blush in flame;
Still, still the secret presses,
Within, without the idle earth
And what if trade sow cities
And thatch with towns the prairie broad
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—
He is no churl or trifler,
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.