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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.

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 rose buds below,


MINOTT, Lee, 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, "'Tis 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 those pure waters and the flies
Know me as does my dog: we sympathize,
And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil."

Where are those 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.

'Tis 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:—

[blocks in formation]

To them and to their heirs

Who shall succeed

Without fail

For evermore.

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.



FOR this present, hard

Is the fortune of the bard

Born out of time;

All his accomplishment

From Nature's utmost treasure spent
Booteth not him.

When the pine tosses its cones
To the song of its waterfall tones,
He speeds to the woodland walks,
To birds and trees he 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;

With none has he to do,

And none seek him,

Nor men below,

Nor spirits dim.

Sure some good his eye enchants;
What he knows nobody wants.

In the wood he travels, glad
Without better fortune had,-
Melancholy without bad.
Planter of celestial plants,

What he knows nobody wants,—

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