But a quiet sense conveyed;

If I err not, thus it said:

'Many feet in summer seek,
Betimes, my far-appearing peak;
In the dreaded winter time,

None save dappling shadows climb,
Under clouds, my lonely head,

Old as the sun, old almost as the shade.
And comest thou

To see strange forests and new snow,
And tread uplifted land?

And leavest thou thy lowland race,
Here amid clouds to stand?

And wouldst be my companion,

Where I gaze, and still shall gaze,

Through tempering nights and flashing days, When forests fall and man is gone,

Over tribes and over times,

At the burning Lyre,

Nearing me,

With its stars of northern fire,

In many a thousand years?

'Ah! welcome, if thou bring My secret in thy brain;

To mountain-top may Muse's wing

With good allowance strain.

Gentle pilgrim, if thou know

The gamut old of Pan,

And how the hills began,

The frank blessings of the hill
Fall on thee, as fall they will.
'Tis the law of bush and stone,
Each can only take his own.

'Let him heed who can and will;
Enchantment fixed me here

To stand the hurts of time, until
In mightier chant I disappear.

'If thou trowest

How the chemic eddies play,

Pole to pole, and what they say,
And that these gray crags

Not on crags are hung,

But beads are of a rosary

On prayer and music strung;

And, credulous, through the granite seeming,

Seest the smile of Reason beaming;

Can thy style-discerning eye

The hidden-working Builder spy,

Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din,
With hammer soft as snow-flake's flight; -
Knowest thou this?

O pilgrim, wandering not amiss!

Already my rocks lie light,

And soon my cone will spin.

'For the world was built in order,

And the atoms march in tune;

Rhyme the pipe, and Time the warder,

Cannot forget the sun, the moon.

Orb and atom forth they prance, When they hear from far the rune; None so backward in the troop, When the music and the dance Reach his place and circumstance, But knows the sun-creating sound, And, though a pyramid, will bound.

'Monadnoc is a mountain strong,
Tall and good my kind among;
But well I know, no mountain can
Measure with a perfect man.
For it is on zodiacs writ,
Adamant is soft to wit:

And when the greater comes again
With my secret in his brain,

I shall pass, as glides my shadow
Daily over hill and meadow.

'Oft as morning wreathes my scarf,
Fled the last plumule of the Dark,
Pants up hither the spruce clerk
From South Cove and City Wharf.
I take him up my rugged sides,
Half-repentant, scant of breath,
Bead-eyes my granite chaos show,
And my midsummer snow;
Open the daunting map beneath, —
All his county, sea and land,
Dwarfed to measure of his hand;

His day's ride is a furlong space,

His city-tops a glimmering haze.

I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding: "See there the grim gray rounding

Of the bullet of the earth

Whereon ye sail,

Tumbling steep

In the uncontinented deep."

He looks on that, and he turns pale.
'Tis even so; this treacherous kite,
Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere,
Thoughtless of its anxious freight,
Plunges eyeless on forever ;
And he, poor parasite,

Cooped in a ship he cannot steer, -
Who is the captain he knows not,
Port or pilot trows not, —

Risk or ruin he must share.

I scowl on him with my cloud,

With my north wind chill his blood;
I lame him, clattering down the rocks;
And to live he is in fear.

Then, at last, I let him down

Once more into his dapper town,
To chatter, frightened, to his clan,
And forget me if he can.'

As in the old poetic fame

The gods are blind and lame,

And the simular despite

Betrays the more abounding might,

So call not waste that barren cone

Above the floral zone,

Where forests starve:

It is pure use ;·

What sheaves like those which here we glean and

bind

Of a celestial Ceres and the Muse?

Ages are thy days,

Thou grand expresser of the present tense,

And type of permanence!

Firm ensign of the fatal Being,

Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief,

That will not bide the seeing!

Hither we bring

Our insect miseries to the rocks;
And the whole flight, with pestering wing,
Vanish, and end their murmuring, ·
Vanish beside these dedicated blocks,
Which who can tell what mason laid?

Spoils of a front none need restore,

Replacing frieze and architrave;

Yet flowers each stone rosette and metope brave;

Still is the haughty pile erect

Of the old building Intellect.

Emerson