I give nothing as duties,

What others give as duties I give as living impulses,

(Shall I give the heart's action as a duty?)

(Bravas to all impulses sending sane children to the next age!

Myself and Mine.

But damn that which spends itself with no thought of the stain, pains, dismay, feebleness, it is

bequeathing.)

By Biue Ontario's Shore.

Stanza 8.

If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred,

And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted.

Each of us inevitable,

Each of us limitless-each of us with his or her right upon the earth,
Each of us allow'd the eternal purports of the earth,
Each of us here as divinely as any is here

What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such a wonder,

The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel.

Ever upon this stage,

Is acted God's calm annual drama,

Gorgeous processions, songs of birds,

Sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul,

Salut au Mode.

Song of Myself. Stanza 22.

The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves,

The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees,

The liliput countless armies of the grass,

The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages,

The scenery of the snows, the winds' free orchestra,

The stretching light-hung roof of clouds, the clear cerulean and the silvery fringes,

The high dilating stars, the placid beckoning stars,

The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows,

The shows of all the varied lands and all the growths and products. The Return of the Heroes.

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,

And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'œuvre for the highest,

And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

For the great Idea, the idea of perfect and free individuals,
For that, the bard walks in advance, leader of leaders,
The attitude of him cheers up slaves and horrifies foreign despots.

For the great Idea,

That, O my brethren, that is the mission of poets.

Song of Myself. Stanza 31.

Underneath all, individuals.

By Blue Ontario's Shore.

Stanza 15.

(The proof of a poet shall be sternly deferr'd till his country absorbs nim as affectionately as he has absorb'd it.)

Fear grace, elegance, civilization, delicatesse,

Ibid. Stanza 13.

Fear the mellow sweet, the sucking of honey-juice,

Beware the advancing mortal ripening of Nature,

Beware what precedes the decay of the ruggedness of states and men.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven,
And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowl-
edge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then?
We but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.

And my spirit said No.

Song of Myself. Stanza 46.

At the last, tenderly,

THE LAST INVOCATION.

From the walls of the powerful fortress'd house,

From the clasp of the knitted locks, from the keep of the well-closed doors,
Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth;

With the key of softness unlock the locks-with a whisper,

Set ope the doors O soul.

Tenderly-be not impatient,.

(Strong is your hold O mortal flesh,

Strong is your hold O love.)

Thoughts, silent thoughts, of Time and Space and Death, like waters flowing,

Bear me indeed as through the regions infinite,

Whose air I breathe, whose ripples hear, lave me all over

Bathe me O God in thee, mounting to thee,

I and my soul to, range in range of thee.

O soul, we have positively appear'd—that is enough.

Passage to India.

As the Time Draws Nigh