To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turned and departed silent. I, too late, Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
GIVE all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good-fame,
Plans, credit and the Muse,
Nothing refuse.
'T is a brave master;
Let it have scope:
Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope: High and more high It dives into noon, With wing unspent, Untold intent; But it is a god,
Knows its own path
And the outlets of the sky.
It was never for the mean; It requireth courage stout. Souls above doubt, Valor unbending, It will reward,-
They shall return
More than they were, And ever ascending.
Leave all for love; Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavor,— Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, forever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise,
First vague shadow of surmise Flits across her bosom young, Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free;
Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.
Sung at the Completion of the Battle Monument, July 4, 1837
By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.
THE HUMBLE-BEE
BURLY, dozing humble-bee, Where thou art is clime for me. Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek; I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid-zone! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines.
Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere;
Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon;
Epicurean of June;
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,— All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou, in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow, breezy bass.
Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.
Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue And brier-roses, dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
I LIKE a church; I like a cowl;
I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowlèd churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell
The thrilling Delphic oracle;
Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old;
The litanies of nations came,
Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,- The canticles of love and woe:
The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome Wrought in a sad sincerity:
Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew ;-
The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast?
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn her annual cell? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone,
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