Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clownOf thee from the hill-top looking down;The heifer that lows in the upland farm,Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;The sexton tolling his bell at noon,Deems not that great NapoleonStops his horse, and lists with delight,Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;Nor knowest thou what argumentThy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.All are needed by each one;Nothing is fair or good alone.I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,Singing at dawn on the alder bough;I brought him home, in his nest, at even;He sings the song, but it cheers not now,For I did not bring home the river and sky;—He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.The delicate shells lay on the shore;The bubbles of the latest waveFresh pearls to their enamel gave,And the bellowing of the savage seaGreeted their safe escape to me.I wiped away the weeds and foam,I fetched my sea-born treasures home;But the poor unsightly, noisome thingsHad left their beauty on the shoreWith the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.The lover watched his graceful maid,As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,Nor knew her beauty's best attireWas woven still by the snow-white choir.At last she came to his hermitage,Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;The gay enchantment was undone—A gentle wife, but fairy none.Then I said, "I covet truth:Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;I leave it behind with the games of youth:"—As I spoke, beneath my feetThe ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,Running over the club-moss burrs;I inhaled the violet's breath;Around me stood the oaks and firs;Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;Over me soared the eternal sky,Full of light and of deity;Again I saw, again I heard,The rolling river, the morning bird;—Beauty through my senses stole;I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clownOf thee from the hill-top looking down;The heifer that lows in the upland farm,Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;The sexton tolling his bell at noon,Deems not that great NapoleonStops his horse, and lists with delight,Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;Nor knowest thou what argumentThy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.All are needed by each one;Nothing is fair or good alone.I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,Singing at dawn on the alder bough;I brought him home, in his nest, at even;He sings the song, but it cheers not now,For I did not bring home the river and sky;—He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.The delicate shells lay on the shore;The bubbles of the latest waveFresh pearls to their enamel gave,And the bellowing of the savage seaGreeted their safe escape to me.I wiped away the weeds and foam,I fetched my sea-born treasures home;But the poor unsightly, noisome thingsHad left their beauty on the shoreWith the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.The lover watched his graceful maid,As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,Nor knew her beauty's best attireWas woven still by the snow-white choir.At last she came to his hermitage,Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;The gay enchantment was undone—A gentle wife, but fairy none.Then I said, "I covet truth:Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;I leave it behind with the games of youth:"—As I spoke, beneath my feetThe ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,Running over the club-moss burrs;I inhaled the violet's breath;Around me stood the oaks and firs;Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;Over me soared the eternal sky,Full of light and of deity;Again I saw, again I heard,The rolling river, the morning bird;—Beauty through my senses stole;I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook.The purple petals, fallen in the pool,Made the black water with their beauty gay;Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask, I never knew;But in my simple ignorance supposeThe self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook.The purple petals, fallen in the pool,Made the black water with their beauty gay;Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask, I never knew;But in my simple ignorance supposeThe self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
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 comeWithin earshot of thy hum,—All without is martyrdom.When the south wind, in May days,With a net of shining hazeSilvers the horizon wall,And with softness touching all,Tints the human countenanceWith 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 toneTells 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 uncleanHath 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-tongueAnd 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 blastCools 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.
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 comeWithin earshot of thy hum,—All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days,With a net of shining hazeSilvers the horizon wall,And with softness touching all,Tints the human countenanceWith 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 toneTells 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 uncleanHath 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-tongueAnd 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 blastCools 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 aislesFall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles.Yet not for all his faith can seeWould 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 thoughtHis awful Jove young Phidias brought;Never from lips of cunning fellThe thrilling Delphic oracle;Out from the heart of nature rolledThe 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 domeAnd groined the aisles of Christian RomeWrought 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 wood-bird's nestOf leaves, and feathers from her breast?Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,Painting with morn each annual cell?Or how the sacred pine-tree addsTo 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,And Morning opes with haste her lidsTo gaze upon the Pyramids;O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,As on its friends, with kindred eye;For out of thought's interior sphereThese wonders rose to upper air;And Nature gladly gave them place,Adopted them into her race,And granted them an equal dateWith Andes and with Ararat.These temples grew as grows the grass;Art might obey, but not surpass.The passive Master lent his handTo the vast soul that o'er him planned;And the same power that reared the shrineBestrode the tribes that knelt within.Ever the fiery PentecostGirds with one flame the countless host,Trances the heart through chanting choirs,And through the priest the mind inspires.The word unto the prophet spokenWas writ on tables yet unbroken;The word by seers or sibyls told,In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,Still floats upon the morning wind,Still whispers to the willing mind.One accent of the Holy GhostThe heedless world hath never lost.I know what say the Fathers wise,—The Book itself before me lies,Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,And he who blent both in his line,The younger Golden Lips or mines,—Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines.His words are music in my ear,I see his cowlèd portrait dear;And yet, for all his faith could see,I would not the good bishop be.
I like a church; I like a cowl;I love a prophet of the soul;And on my heart monastic aislesFall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles.Yet not for all his faith can seeWould 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 thoughtHis awful Jove young Phidias brought;Never from lips of cunning fellThe thrilling Delphic oracle;Out from the heart of nature rolledThe 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 domeAnd groined the aisles of Christian RomeWrought 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 wood-bird's nestOf leaves, and feathers from her breast?Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,Painting with morn each annual cell?Or how the sacred pine-tree addsTo 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,And Morning opes with haste her lidsTo gaze upon the Pyramids;O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,As on its friends, with kindred eye;For out of thought's interior sphereThese wonders rose to upper air;And Nature gladly gave them place,Adopted them into her race,And granted them an equal dateWith Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass;Art might obey, but not surpass.The passive Master lent his handTo the vast soul that o'er him planned;And the same power that reared the shrineBestrode the tribes that knelt within.Ever the fiery PentecostGirds with one flame the countless host,Trances the heart through chanting choirs,And through the priest the mind inspires.The word unto the prophet spokenWas writ on tables yet unbroken;The word by seers or sibyls told,In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,Still floats upon the morning wind,Still whispers to the willing mind.One accent of the Holy GhostThe heedless world hath never lost.I know what say the Fathers wise,—The Book itself before me lies,Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,And he who blent both in his line,The younger Golden Lips or mines,—Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines.His words are music in my ear,I see his cowlèd portrait dear;And yet, for all his faith could see,I would not the good bishop be.
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,And marching single in an endless file,Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.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, hastilyTook a few herbs and apples, and the DayTurned and departed silent. I, too late,Under the solemn fillet saw the scorn.
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,And marching single in an endless file,Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.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, hastilyTook a few herbs and apples, and the DayTurned and departed silent. I, too late,Under the solemn fillet saw the scorn.
Because I was content with these poor fields,Low open meads, slender and sluggish streams,And found a home in haunts which others scorned,The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,And granted me the freedom of their state,And in their secret senate have prevailedWith the dear dangerous lords that rule our life,Made moon and planets parties to their bond,And through my rock-like, solitary wontShot million rays of thought and tenderness.For me, in showers, in sweeping showers, the SpringVisits the valley;—break away the clouds,—I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,And planted world, and full executorOf their imperfect functions.But these young scholars who invade our hills—Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,And traveling often in the cut he makes—Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,And all their botany is Latin names.The old men studied magic in the flowers,And human fortunes in astronomy,And an omnipotence in chemistry,Preferring things to names; for these were men,Were unitarians of the united world,And wheresoever their clear eye-beams fell,They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyesAre armed, but we are strangers to the stars,And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,And strangers to the plant and to the mine.The injured elements say, "Not in us;"And night and day, ocean and continent,Fire, plant, and mineral say, "Not in us;"And haughtily return us stare for stare.For we invade them impiously for gain;We devastate them unreligiously,And coldly ask their pottage, not their love.Therefore they shove us from them, yield to usOnly what to our griping toil is due;But the sweet affluence of love and song,The rich results of the divine consentsOf man and earth, of world beloved and lover,The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld;And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thievesAnd pirates of the universe, shut outDaily to a more thin and outward rind,And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.Sparrows far off, and nearer, April's bird,Blue-coated,—flying before from tree to tree,Courageous sing a delicate overtureTo lead the tardy concert of the year.Onward and nearer rides the sun of May;And wide around, the marriage of the plantsIs sweetly solemnized. Then flows amainThe surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,Hollow and lake, hillside and pine arcade,Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliffHas thousand faces in a thousand hours.Beneath low hills, in the broad intervalThrough which at will our Indian rivuletWinds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,Whose pipe and arrow oft the plow unburies;Here in pine houses built of new-fallen trees,Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.Traveler, to thee perchance a tedious road,Or it may be, a picture; to these men,The landscape is an armory of powers,Which, one by one, they know to draw and use;They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work;They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,And, like the chemist mid his loaded jars,Draw from each stratum its adapted useTo drug their crops or weapon their arts withal.They turn the frost upon their chemic heap,They set the wind to winnow pulse and grain,They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime,And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow,Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woodsO'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,They fight the elements with elements(That one would say, meadow and forest walked,Transmuted in these men to rule their like),And by the order in the field discloseThe order regnant in the yeoman's brain.What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,I followed in small copy in my acre;For there's no rood has not a star above it;The cordial quality of pear or plumAscends as gladly in a single treeAs in broad orchards resonant with bees;And every atom poises for itself,And for the whole. The gentle deitiesShowed me the lore of colors and of sounds,The innumerable tenements of beauty,The miracle of generative force,Far-reaching concords of astronomyFelt in the plants and in the punctual birds;Better, the linkèd purpose of the whole,And—chiefest prize—found I true libertyIn the glad home plain-dealing Nature gave.The polite found me impolite; the greatWould mortify me, but in vain; for stillI am a willow of the wilderness,Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurtsMy garden spade can heal. A woodland walk,A quest of river grapes, a mocking thrush,A wild rose, or rock-loving columbine,Salve my worst wounds.For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear:"Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie?Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like nature passInto the winter night's extinguished mood?Canst thou shine now, then darkle,And being latent, feel thyself no less?As, when the all-worshiped moon attracts the eye,The river, hill, stems, foliage, are obscure,Yet envies none, none are unenviable."
Because I was content with these poor fields,Low open meads, slender and sluggish streams,And found a home in haunts which others scorned,The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,And granted me the freedom of their state,And in their secret senate have prevailedWith the dear dangerous lords that rule our life,Made moon and planets parties to their bond,And through my rock-like, solitary wontShot million rays of thought and tenderness.For me, in showers, in sweeping showers, the SpringVisits the valley;—break away the clouds,—I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,And planted world, and full executorOf their imperfect functions.But these young scholars who invade our hills—Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,And traveling often in the cut he makes—Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,And all their botany is Latin names.The old men studied magic in the flowers,And human fortunes in astronomy,And an omnipotence in chemistry,Preferring things to names; for these were men,Were unitarians of the united world,And wheresoever their clear eye-beams fell,They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyesAre armed, but we are strangers to the stars,And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,And strangers to the plant and to the mine.The injured elements say, "Not in us;"And night and day, ocean and continent,Fire, plant, and mineral say, "Not in us;"And haughtily return us stare for stare.For we invade them impiously for gain;We devastate them unreligiously,And coldly ask their pottage, not their love.Therefore they shove us from them, yield to usOnly what to our griping toil is due;But the sweet affluence of love and song,The rich results of the divine consentsOf man and earth, of world beloved and lover,The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld;And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thievesAnd pirates of the universe, shut outDaily to a more thin and outward rind,And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.Sparrows far off, and nearer, April's bird,Blue-coated,—flying before from tree to tree,Courageous sing a delicate overtureTo lead the tardy concert of the year.Onward and nearer rides the sun of May;And wide around, the marriage of the plantsIs sweetly solemnized. Then flows amainThe surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,Hollow and lake, hillside and pine arcade,Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliffHas thousand faces in a thousand hours.
Beneath low hills, in the broad intervalThrough which at will our Indian rivuletWinds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,Whose pipe and arrow oft the plow unburies;Here in pine houses built of new-fallen trees,Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.Traveler, to thee perchance a tedious road,Or it may be, a picture; to these men,The landscape is an armory of powers,Which, one by one, they know to draw and use;They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work;They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,And, like the chemist mid his loaded jars,Draw from each stratum its adapted useTo drug their crops or weapon their arts withal.They turn the frost upon their chemic heap,They set the wind to winnow pulse and grain,They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime,And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow,Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woodsO'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,They fight the elements with elements(That one would say, meadow and forest walked,Transmuted in these men to rule their like),And by the order in the field discloseThe order regnant in the yeoman's brain.What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,I followed in small copy in my acre;For there's no rood has not a star above it;The cordial quality of pear or plumAscends as gladly in a single treeAs in broad orchards resonant with bees;And every atom poises for itself,And for the whole. The gentle deitiesShowed me the lore of colors and of sounds,The innumerable tenements of beauty,The miracle of generative force,Far-reaching concords of astronomyFelt in the plants and in the punctual birds;Better, the linkèd purpose of the whole,And—chiefest prize—found I true libertyIn the glad home plain-dealing Nature gave.The polite found me impolite; the greatWould mortify me, but in vain; for stillI am a willow of the wilderness,Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurtsMy garden spade can heal. A woodland walk,A quest of river grapes, a mocking thrush,A wild rose, or rock-loving columbine,Salve my worst wounds.For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear:"Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie?Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like nature passInto the winter night's extinguished mood?Canst thou shine now, then darkle,And being latent, feel thyself no less?As, when the all-worshiped moon attracts the eye,The river, hill, stems, foliage, are obscure,Yet envies none, none are unenviable."
The South-wind bringsLife, sunshine and desire,And on every mount and meadowBreathes aromatic fire;But over the dead he has no power,The lost, the lost, he cannot restore;And looking over the hills, I mournThe darling who shall not return....O child of paradise,Boy who made dear his father's home,In whose deep eyesMen read the welfare of the times to come,I am too much bereft.The world dishonored thou hast left.O truth's and Nature's costly lie!O trusted broken prophecy!O richest fortune sourly crossed!Born for the future, to the future lost!The deep Heart answered, "Weepest thou?Worthier cause for passion wildIf I had not taken the child.And deemest thou as those who pore,With agèd eyes, short way before,—Think'st Beauty vanished from the coastOf matter, and thy darling lost?Taught he not thee—the man of eld,Whose eyes within his eyes beheldHeaven's numerous hierarchy spanThe mystic gulf from God to man?To be alone wilt thou begin,When worlds of lovers hem thee in?To-morrow, when the masks shall fallThat dizen Nature's carnival,The pure shall see by their own will,Which overflowing Love shall fill,'Tis not within the force of fateThe fate-conjoined to separate.But thou, my votary, weepest thou?I gave thee sight—where is it now?I taught thy heart beyond the reachOf ritual, Bible, or of speech;Wrote in thy mind's transparent table,As far as the incommunicable;Taught thee each private sign to raiseLit by the supersolar blaze.Past utterance, and past belief,And past the blasphemy of grief,The mysteries of Nature's heart;And though no Muse can these impart,Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,And all is clear from east to west."I came to thee as to a friend;Dearest, to thee I did not sendTutors, but a joyful eye,Innocence that matched the sky,Lovely locks, a form of wonder,Laughter rich as woodland thunder,That thou might'st entertain apartThe richest flowering of all art:And, as the great all-loving DayThrough smallest chambers takes its way,That thou might'st break thy daily breadWith prophet, savior, and head;That thou might'st cherish for thine ownThe richest of sweet Mary's Son,Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon.And thoughtest thou such guestWould in thy hall take up his rest?Would rushing life forget her laws,Fate's glowing revolution pause?High omens ask diviner guess;Not to be conned to tediousness.And know my higher gifts unbindThe zone that girds the incarnate mind.When the scanty shores are fullWith thought's perilous, whirling pool;When frail Nature can no more,Then the Spirit strikes the hour:My servant Death, with solving rite,Pours finite into infinite.Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow,Whose streams through Nature circling go?Nail the wild star to its trackOn the half climbed zodiac?Light is light which radiates,Blood is blood which circulates,Life is life which generates,And many-seeming life is one,—Wilt thou transfix and make it none?Its onward force too starkly pentIn figure, bone, and lineament?Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate,—Talker!—the unreplying Fate?Nor see the genius of the wholeAscendant in the private soul?Beckon it when to go and come,Self-announced its hour of doom?Fair the soul's recess and shrine,Magic-built to last a season;Masterpiece of love benign,Fairer that expansive reasonWhose omen 'tis, and sign.Wilt thou not ope thy heart to knowWhat rainbows teach, and sunsets show?Verdict which accumulatesFrom lengthening scroll of human fates,Voice of earth to earth returned,Prayers of saints that inly burned,—Saying,What is excellent,As God lives, is permanent;Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain;Heart's love will meet thee again.Revere the Maker; fetch thine eyeUp to his style, and manners of the sky.Not of adamant and goldBuilt he heaven stark and cold;No, but a nest of bending reeds,Flowering grass and scented weeds;Or like a traveler's fleeing tent,Or bow above the tempest bent;Built of tears and sacred flames,And virtue reaching to its aims;Built of furtherance and pursuing,Not of spent deeds, but of doing.Silent rushes the swift LordThrough ruined systems still restored,Broad-sowing, bleak and void to bless,Plants with worlds the wilderness;Waters with tears of ancient sorrowApples of Eden ripe to-morrow.House and tenant go to ground,Lost in God, in Godhead found."
The South-wind bringsLife, sunshine and desire,And on every mount and meadowBreathes aromatic fire;But over the dead he has no power,The lost, the lost, he cannot restore;And looking over the hills, I mournThe darling who shall not return....
O child of paradise,Boy who made dear his father's home,In whose deep eyesMen read the welfare of the times to come,I am too much bereft.The world dishonored thou hast left.O truth's and Nature's costly lie!O trusted broken prophecy!O richest fortune sourly crossed!Born for the future, to the future lost!
The deep Heart answered, "Weepest thou?Worthier cause for passion wildIf I had not taken the child.And deemest thou as those who pore,With agèd eyes, short way before,—Think'st Beauty vanished from the coastOf matter, and thy darling lost?Taught he not thee—the man of eld,Whose eyes within his eyes beheldHeaven's numerous hierarchy spanThe mystic gulf from God to man?To be alone wilt thou begin,When worlds of lovers hem thee in?To-morrow, when the masks shall fallThat dizen Nature's carnival,The pure shall see by their own will,Which overflowing Love shall fill,'Tis not within the force of fateThe fate-conjoined to separate.But thou, my votary, weepest thou?I gave thee sight—where is it now?I taught thy heart beyond the reachOf ritual, Bible, or of speech;Wrote in thy mind's transparent table,As far as the incommunicable;Taught thee each private sign to raiseLit by the supersolar blaze.Past utterance, and past belief,And past the blasphemy of grief,The mysteries of Nature's heart;And though no Muse can these impart,Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,And all is clear from east to west.
"I came to thee as to a friend;Dearest, to thee I did not sendTutors, but a joyful eye,Innocence that matched the sky,Lovely locks, a form of wonder,Laughter rich as woodland thunder,That thou might'st entertain apartThe richest flowering of all art:And, as the great all-loving DayThrough smallest chambers takes its way,That thou might'st break thy daily breadWith prophet, savior, and head;That thou might'st cherish for thine ownThe richest of sweet Mary's Son,Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon.And thoughtest thou such guestWould in thy hall take up his rest?Would rushing life forget her laws,Fate's glowing revolution pause?High omens ask diviner guess;Not to be conned to tediousness.And know my higher gifts unbindThe zone that girds the incarnate mind.When the scanty shores are fullWith thought's perilous, whirling pool;When frail Nature can no more,Then the Spirit strikes the hour:My servant Death, with solving rite,Pours finite into infinite.Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow,Whose streams through Nature circling go?Nail the wild star to its trackOn the half climbed zodiac?Light is light which radiates,Blood is blood which circulates,Life is life which generates,And many-seeming life is one,—Wilt thou transfix and make it none?Its onward force too starkly pentIn figure, bone, and lineament?Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate,—Talker!—the unreplying Fate?Nor see the genius of the wholeAscendant in the private soul?Beckon it when to go and come,Self-announced its hour of doom?Fair the soul's recess and shrine,Magic-built to last a season;Masterpiece of love benign,Fairer that expansive reasonWhose omen 'tis, and sign.Wilt thou not ope thy heart to knowWhat rainbows teach, and sunsets show?Verdict which accumulatesFrom lengthening scroll of human fates,Voice of earth to earth returned,Prayers of saints that inly burned,—Saying,What is excellent,As God lives, is permanent;Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain;Heart's love will meet thee again.Revere the Maker; fetch thine eyeUp to his style, and manners of the sky.Not of adamant and goldBuilt he heaven stark and cold;No, but a nest of bending reeds,Flowering grass and scented weeds;Or like a traveler's fleeing tent,Or bow above the tempest bent;Built of tears and sacred flames,And virtue reaching to its aims;Built of furtherance and pursuing,Not of spent deeds, but of doing.Silent rushes the swift LordThrough ruined systems still restored,Broad-sowing, bleak and void to bless,Plants with worlds the wilderness;Waters with tears of ancient sorrowApples of Eden ripe to-morrow.House and tenant go to ground,Lost in God, in Godhead found."
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 sweptDown 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 dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.
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 sweptDown 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 dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.
O tenderly the haughty dayFills his blue urn with fire;One morn is in the mighty heaven,And one in our desire.The cannon booms from town to town,Our pulses beat not less,The joy-bells chime their tidings down,Which children's voices bless.For He that flung the broad blue foldO'er mantling land and sea,One third part of the sky unrolledFor the banner of the free.The men are ripe of Saxon kindTo build an equal state,—To take the statue from the mindAnd make of duty fate.United States! the ages plead,—Present and Past in under-song,—Go put your creed into your deed,Nor speak with double tongue.For sea and land don't understand,Nor skies without a frownSee rights for which the one hand fightsBy the other cloven down.Be just at home; then write your scrollOf honor o'er the sea,And bid the broad Atlantic roll,A ferry of the free.And henceforth there shall be no chain,Save underneath the seaThe wires shall murmur through the mainSweet songs of liberty.The conscious stars accord above,The waters wild below,And under, through the cable wove,Her fiery errands go.For He that worketh high and wise,Nor pauses in his plan,Will take the sun out of the skiesEre freedom out of man.
O tenderly the haughty dayFills his blue urn with fire;One morn is in the mighty heaven,And one in our desire.
The cannon booms from town to town,Our pulses beat not less,The joy-bells chime their tidings down,Which children's voices bless.
For He that flung the broad blue foldO'er mantling land and sea,One third part of the sky unrolledFor the banner of the free.
The men are ripe of Saxon kindTo build an equal state,—To take the statue from the mindAnd make of duty fate.
United States! the ages plead,—Present and Past in under-song,—Go put your creed into your deed,Nor speak with double tongue.
For sea and land don't understand,Nor skies without a frownSee rights for which the one hand fightsBy the other cloven down.
Be just at home; then write your scrollOf honor o'er the sea,And bid the broad Atlantic roll,A ferry of the free.
And henceforth there shall be no chain,Save underneath the seaThe wires shall murmur through the mainSweet songs of liberty.
The conscious stars accord above,The waters wild below,And under, through the cable wove,Her fiery errands go.
For He that worketh high and wise,Nor pauses in his plan,Will take the sun out of the skiesEre freedom out of man.
All the above citations from Emerson's works are reprinted by permission of his family, and of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers, Boston, Mass., as stated on a previous page.
CONCORD MONUMENT.Marking the Battle Field of April 19, 1775.From a Photograph.CONCORD MONUMENT.
Marking the Battle Field of April 19, 1775.From a Photograph.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES1. Images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest paragraph break. Also the footnotes have been moved to the end of the chapter in which they are referred.2. The illustrations "Gothic Bible of Ulfilas" and "Egyptian Hieroglyphic Writing" mentioned in "Full-Page Illustrations" list are missing.3. The original text includes Greek characters. For this HTML version these letters have been replaced with transliterations.4. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.
1. Images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest paragraph break. Also the footnotes have been moved to the end of the chapter in which they are referred.2. The illustrations "Gothic Bible of Ulfilas" and "Egyptian Hieroglyphic Writing" mentioned in "Full-Page Illustrations" list are missing.3. The original text includes Greek characters. For this HTML version these letters have been replaced with transliterations.4. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.
1. Images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest paragraph break. Also the footnotes have been moved to the end of the chapter in which they are referred.
2. The illustrations "Gothic Bible of Ulfilas" and "Egyptian Hieroglyphic Writing" mentioned in "Full-Page Illustrations" list are missing.
3. The original text includes Greek characters. For this HTML version these letters have been replaced with transliterations.
4. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.