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Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps,
To spy what danger on his pathway creeps.
Go where he will, the wise man is at home,
His hearth the earth,—his hall the azure dome;
Where his clear spirit leads him, there's his road,
By God's own light illumined and foreshowed.

'Twas one of the charmèd days
When the genius of God doth flow,
The wind may alter twenty ways,
A tempest cannot blow:

It

may blow north, it still is warm;
Or south, it still is clear;

Or east, it smells like a clover farm;
Or west, no thunder fear.

The musing peasant lowly great
Beside the forest-water sate :

The rope-like pine-root crosswise grown
Composed the net-work of his throne;
The wide lake edged with sand and grass
Was burnished to a floor of glass,
Painted with shadows green and proud
Of the tree and of the cloud.

He was the heart of all the scene,
On him the sun looked more serene;
To hill and cloud his face was known,
It seemed the likeness of their own.
They knew by secret sympathy
The public child of earth and sky.
"You ask," he said, "what guide
Me through trackless thickets led,
Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and

wide?

I found the waters' bed:

I travelled grateful by their side,

Or through their channel dry;

They led me through the thicket damp,

Through brake and fern, the beaver's camp,
Through beds of granite cut my road,

And their resistless friendship showed.
The falling waters led me,

The foodful waters fed me,

And brought me to the lowest land,
Unerring to the ocean-sand.

The moss upon the forest bark

Was pole-star when the night was dark;
The purple berries in the wood
Supplied me necessary food.
For Nature ever faithful is

To such as trust her faithfulness.
When the forest shall mislead me,
When the night and morning lie,
When sea and land refuse to feed me,
"Twill be time enough to die;
Then will yet my mother yield
A pillow in her greenest field,
Nor the June flowers scorn to cover
The clay of their departed lover."

II.

As sunbeams stream through liberal space, And nothing jostle or displace,

So waved the pine-tree through my thought, And fanned the dreams it never brought.

"Whether is better, the gift or the donor? Come to me,"

Quoth the pine-tree,

"I am the giver of honour.

My garden is the cloven rock,

And my manure the snow,

And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock
In summer's scorching glow.

Ancient or curious,

Who knoweth aught of us?

Old as Jove,

Old as Love,

Who of me

Tells the pedigree?

Only the mountains old,
Only the waters cold,
Only moon and star
My coevals are.

Ere the first fowl sung

My relenting boughs among,
Ere Adam wived,

Ere Adam lived,

Ere the duck dived,

Ere the bees hived,

Ere the lion roared,
Ere the eagle soared,

Light and heat, land and sea,
Spake unto the oldest tree.
Glad in the sweet and secret aid
Which matter unto matter paid,
The water flowed, the breezes fanned.
The tree confined the roving sand,
The sunbeam gave me to the sight,
The tree adorned the formless light
And once again

O'er the grave of men

We shall talk to each other again
Of the old age behind,

Of the time out of mind

Which shall come again.

"Whether is better, the gift or the donor? Come to me,"

Quoth the pine-tree,

"I am the giver of honour.

He is great who can live by me;

The rough and bearded forester

Is better than the lord;

God fills the scrip and canister,
Sin piles the loaded board.
The lord is the peasant that was,
The peasant the lord that shall be;

The lord is hay, the peasant grass,
One dry, and one the living tree.
Genius with my boughs shall flourish,
Want and cold our roots shall nourish.
Who liveth by the ragged pine
Foundeth a heroic line;
Who liveth in the palace-hall
Waneth fast and spendeth all.
He goes to my savage haunts,
With his chariot and his care;
My twilight realm he disenchants,
And finds his prison there.

"What prizes the town and the tower?
Only what the pine-tree yields,-
Sinew that subdued the fields,

The wild-eyed boy who in the woods
Chants his hymn to hill and floods,
Whom the city's poisoning spleen
Made not pale, or fat, or lean,

Whom the rain and the wind purgeth,
Whom the dawn and the day-star urgeth,
In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth,
In whose feet the lion rusheth,

Iron arms and iron mould,

That know not fear, fatigue, or cold.
I give my rafters to his boat,

My billets to his boiler's throat,
And I will swim the ancient sea
To float my child to victory,
And grant to dwellers with the pine
Dominion o'er the palm and vine.
Westward I ope the forest-gates;
The train along the railroad skates;
It leaves the land behind, like ages past,
The foreland flows to it in river fast.
Missouri I have made a mart,

I teach Iowa Saxon art.

Who leaves the pine-tree leaves his friend, Unnerves his strength, invites his end.

Cut a bough from my parent stem,
And dip it in thy porcelain ware ;—
A little while each russet gem

Will swell and rise with wonted grace,
But, when it seeks enlarged supplies,
The orphan of the forest dies.

"Whoso walketh in solitude, And inhabiteth the wood,

Choosing light, wave, rock, and bird,
Before the money-loving herd,

Into that forester shall pass

From these companions power and grace.

Clean shall he be without, within,

From the old adhering sin;
Love shall he, but not adulate,
The all-fair, the all-embracing Fate,
All ill dissolving in the light
Of his triumphant piercing sight.
Not vain, sour, nor frivolous,
Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous;

Grave, chaste, contented, though retired,
And of all other men desired.

On him the light of star and moon
Shall fall with purer radiance down ;

All constellations of the sky

Shed their virtue through his eye.
Him Nature giveth for defence
His formidable innocence;

The mountain-sap, the shells, the sea,
All spheres, all stones, his helpers be.
He shall never be old,

Nor his fate shall be foretold;
He shall see the speeding year,
Without wailing, without fear.
He shall be happy in his love,
Like to like shall joyful prove.
He shall be happy whilst he wooes
Muse-born a daughter of the Muse;
But if with gold she bind her hair,

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