Loved by the satyr and the faun!
To thee the olive and the vine,
To thee the Mediterranean pine,
And the soft lapping sea!
Thine, Bacchus,

Thine, the blood-red revels,
Thine, the bearded goat!
Soft valleys unto thee,
And Aphrodite's shrine,

And maidens veiled in falling robes of lawn!
But unto us, to us,

The stalwart glories of the North;
Ours is the sounding main,

And ours the voices uttering forth

By midnight round these cliffs a mighty strain;

A tale of viewless islands in the deep
Washed by the waves' white fire;
Of mariners rocked asleep,

In the great cradle, far from Grecian ire
Of Neptune and his train;
To us, to us,

The dark-leaved shadow and the shining

birch,

The flight of gold through hollow woodlands driven,

Soft dying of the year with many a sigh, These, all, to us are given !

And eyes that eager evermore shall search
The hidden seed, and searching find again
Unfading blossoms of a fadeless spring;
These, these, to us!

The sacred youth and maid,
Coy and half afraid;

The sorrowful earthly pall,
Winter and wintry rain,
And autumn's gathered grain,

With whispering music in their fall;
These unto us!

And unto thee, Theocritus,
To thee,

I put my question to the flower: "Pride of the Summer, garden queen, Why livest thou thy little hour?

And the Rose answered, "I am seen."

I put my question to the Root.
"I mine the earth content," it said,
"A hidden miner underfoot:
I know a Rose is overhead."

TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN

STERN be the pilot in the dreadful hour When a great nation, like a ship at sea With the wroth breakers whitening at her lee,

Feels her last shudder if her helmsman

cower;

A godlike manhood be his mighty dower! Such and so gifted, Lincoln, mayst thou be, With thy high wisdom's low simplicity And awful tenderness of voted power. From our hot records then thy name shall stand

On Time's calm ledger out of passionate days

With the pure debt of gratitude begun,
And only paid in never-ending praise-
One of the many of a mighty Land,
Made by God's providence the Anointed
One.

1862.

FARTHER

(THE SUGGESTED DEVICE OF A NEW WESTERN STATE)

FAR-OFF a young State rises, full of might: I paint its brave escutcheon. Near at hand See the log-cabin in the rough clearing stand;

A woman by its door, with steadfast sight, Trustful, looks Westward, where, uplifted bright,

Some city's Apparition, weird and grand,
In dazzling quiet fronts the lonely land,
With vast and marvellous structures
wrought of light,

Motionless on the burning cloud afar:
The haunting vision of a time to be,
After the heroic age is ended here,
Built on the boundless, still horizon's bar
By the low sun, his gorgeous prophecy
Lighting the doorway of the pioneer !

IRELAND

A SEASIDE PORTRAIT

A GREAT, Still Shape, alone,

She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand, And sees her children, one by one, depart:Her cloak (that hides what sins beside her own!)

Wrapped fold on fold about her. Lo, She comforts her fierce heart, As wailing some, and some gay-singing go, With the far vision of that Greater Land Deep in the Atlantic skies, St. Brandan's Paradise! Another Woman there, Mighty and wondrous fair,

Stands on her shore-rock: one uplifted hand

Holds a quick-piercing light

That keeps long sea-ways bright; She beckons with the other, saying "Come, O landless, shelterless,

Sharp-faced with hunger, worn with long distress:

Come hither, finding home! Lo, my new fields of harvest, open, free, By winds of blessing blown, Whose golden corn-blades shake from sea