RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Born May 25, 1803. Died April 27, 1882.

Mrs. E. C. Kinney.

Dear Nature’s child, he nestled close to her!She to his heart had whispered deeper thingsThan science from the wells of learning brings.His still small voice the human soul could stir,For Nature made him her interpreter.And gave her favorite son far-reaching wings;He soared and sang as Heaven’s lark only sings,Devout in praise, Truth’s truest worshiper.With eyes anointed, in his upward flightHe quick discerned what was divine in men,Reading the humblest spirit’s tongue aright.O Prophet, Poet, Leader! in thy lightHow many saw beyond their natural ken,Who follow now the star that led thee then!

Dear Nature’s child, he nestled close to her!

She to his heart had whispered deeper things

Than science from the wells of learning brings.

His still small voice the human soul could stir,

For Nature made him her interpreter.

And gave her favorite son far-reaching wings;

He soared and sang as Heaven’s lark only sings,

Devout in praise, Truth’s truest worshiper.

With eyes anointed, in his upward flight

He quick discerned what was divine in men,

Reading the humblest spirit’s tongue aright.

O Prophet, Poet, Leader! in thy light

How many saw beyond their natural ken,

Who follow now the star that led thee then!

Emerson’s writings call for thought in the reader. They demand that one should stop and ask questions, should translate what one has read into one’s own ordinary speech, and inquire again if it is true. No one should read Emerson who is not willing to have his own weakness disclosed to him, and who is not prepared also to test what he finds by a standard which is above both writer and reader.—Horace E. Scudder.

There are living organisms so transparent that we can see their hearts beating and their blood flowing through their glassy tissues. So transparent was the life of Emerson; so clearly did the true nature of the man show through it. What he taught others to be he was himself. His deep and sweet humanity won him love and reverence everywhere among those whose natures were capable of responding to the highest manifestations of character.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Though Emerson had reached a great age, we were not ready to part with him. He was an important friend, companion, kinsman, fellow-citizen, to the last; a wayfarer everybody was glad to meet; one whose enemy none could continue to be; a charmer whose spell was not to be escaped. With his imagination for an eye, Emerson was a perceiver, and he respected perception in himself and others, being as quick and glad to quote their perceptions as to announce his own. He notes, cites, and lauds every scrap of insight, or ripple of tidings over the ocean that heaves from the unknown shore towards which he sails.—Rev. C. A. Bartol.

Emerson’s faith in America is justified whether we trust in the capacities of the individual soul, or whether our expectation grows from the promises of a new civilization. America brings together the races of the world as no nation or time ever did before, and Emerson’s hope for America may yet be justified by a literature in harmony with the new time.—George Willis Cooke.

Long, long had we heard in India of his name and reputation. We wondered what manner of man he was. When at last I landed on your continent, how glad I should have been to sit at his feet and unfold before him the tale of our woe and degradation! But he had gone to his rest, and instead of touching his warm hand which had blessed so many pilgrims, I could but kiss the cold dust of his nameless grave at the Concord cemetery.—Protap Chunder Mozoomdar.

All right activity is amiable. I never feel that any man occupies my place, but that the reason why I do not have what I wish is, that I want the faculty which entitles. All spiritual or real power makes its own place.—Aristocracy.

By right or wrong,Lands and goods go to the strong,Property will brutely drawStill to the proprietor;Silver to silver creep and wind,And kind to kind.The Celestial Love.

By right or wrong,Lands and goods go to the strong,Property will brutely drawStill to the proprietor;Silver to silver creep and wind,And kind to kind.

By right or wrong,

Lands and goods go to the strong,

Property will brutely draw

Still to the proprietor;

Silver to silver creep and wind,

And kind to kind.

The Celestial Love.

Come see the northwind’s masonry:Out of an unseen quarry evermoreFurnished with tile, the fierce artificerCurves his white bastions with projected roof.The Snow-storm.

Come see the northwind’s masonry:Out of an unseen quarry evermoreFurnished with tile, the fierce artificerCurves his white bastions with projected roof.

Come see the northwind’s masonry:

Out of an unseen quarry evermore

Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer

Curves his white bastions with projected roof.

The Snow-storm.

Do not spare to put novels into the hands of young people as an occasional holiday and experiment; but, above all, good poetry in all kinds, epic, tragedy, lyric.—Education.

Europe has always owed to Oriental genius its divine impulses. What those holy bards said, all sane men found agreeable and true.—Address to Divinity Students.

For Nature ever faithful isTo such as trust her faithfulness.Woodnotes.

For Nature ever faithful isTo such as trust her faithfulness.

For Nature ever faithful is

To such as trust her faithfulness.

Woodnotes.

Gentle pilgrim, if thou knowThe gamut old of Pan,And how the hills began,The frank blessings of the hillFall on thee, as fall they will.Monadnoc.

Gentle pilgrim, if thou knowThe gamut old of Pan,And how the hills began,The frank blessings of the hillFall on thee, as fall they will.

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.

Monadnoc.

He is great who confers the most benefits. He is base—and that is the one base thing in the universe—to receive favors and render none.—Compensation.

Insect lover of the sun,Joy of thy dominion;Sailor of the atmosphere,Swimmer through the waves of air.The Humble-bee.

Insect lover of the sun,Joy of thy dominion;Sailor of the atmosphere,Swimmer through the waves of air.

Insect lover of the sun,

Joy of thy dominion;

Sailor of the atmosphere,

Swimmer through the waves of air.

The Humble-bee.

Jesus astonishes and overpowers sensual people. They cannot unite Him to history, or reconcile Him with themselves.—History.

Knowest thou that wove yon wood-bird’s nestOf leaves, and feathers from her breast?Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,Painting with morn each annual shell?The Problem.

Knowest thou that wove yon wood-bird’s nestOf leaves, and feathers from her breast?Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,Painting with morn each annual shell?

Knowest thou that wove yon wood-bird’s nest

Of leaves, and feathers from her breast?

Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,

Painting with morn each annual shell?

The Problem.

Let a man control the habit of expense. Let him see that as much wisdom may be expended on a private economy as on an empire, and as much wisdom be drawn from it.—Prudence.

Man was made of solid earth,Child and brother from his birth;Tethered by a liquid cordOf blood through veins of kindred poured.The Celestial Love.

Man was made of solid earth,Child and brother from his birth;Tethered by a liquid cordOf blood through veins of kindred poured.

Man was made of solid earth,

Child and brother from his birth;

Tethered by a liquid cord

Of blood through veins of kindred poured.

The Celestial Love.

No man can learn what he has not preparation for learning, however near to his eyes is the object. A chemist may tell his most precious secrets to a carpenter, and he shall never be the wiser.—Spiritual Laws.

One harvest from thy fieldHomeward brought the oxen strong;A second crop thine acres yieldWhich I gather in a song.The Apology.

One harvest from thy fieldHomeward brought the oxen strong;A second crop thine acres yieldWhich I gather in a song.

One harvest from thy field

Homeward brought the oxen strong;

A second crop thine acres yield

Which I gather in a song.

The Apology.

People say sometimes, “See what I have overcome; see how cheerful I am; see how completely I have triumphed over these black events.” Not if they still remind me of the black event.—Circles.

Queen of things! I dare not dieIn Being’s deeps past ear and eye;Lest there I find the same deceiverAnd be the sport of Fate forever.Ode to Beauty.

Queen of things! I dare not dieIn Being’s deeps past ear and eye;Lest there I find the same deceiverAnd be the sport of Fate forever.

Queen of things! I dare not die

In Being’s deeps past ear and eye;

Lest there I find the same deceiver

And be the sport of Fate forever.

Ode to Beauty.

River and rose and crag and bird,Frost and sun and eldest night,To me their aid preferred,To me their comfort plight.Hermione.

River and rose and crag and bird,Frost and sun and eldest night,To me their aid preferred,To me their comfort plight.

River and rose and crag and bird,

Frost and sun and eldest night,

To me their aid preferred,

To me their comfort plight.

Hermione.

Spartans, stoics, heroes, saints, and gods use a short and positive speech. They are never off their centers. As soon as they swell and paint and find truth not enough for them, softening of the brain has already begun.—The Superlative.

Teach me your mood, O patient stars!Who climb each night the ancient sky,Leaving on space no shade, no scars,No trace of age, no fear to die.The Poet.

Teach me your mood, O patient stars!Who climb each night the ancient sky,Leaving on space no shade, no scars,No trace of age, no fear to die.

Teach me your mood, O patient stars!

Who climb each night the ancient sky,

Leaving on space no shade, no scars,

No trace of age, no fear to die.

The Poet.

Upborne and surrounded as we are by this all-creating nature, soft and fluid as a cloud or the air, why should we be such hard pedants and magnify a few forms?—History.

Virtue runs before the Muse,And defies her skill;She is rapt, and doth refuseTo wait a painters will.Loss and Gain.

Virtue runs before the Muse,And defies her skill;She is rapt, and doth refuseTo wait a painters will.

Virtue runs before the Muse,

And defies her skill;

She is rapt, and doth refuse

To wait a painters will.

Loss and Gain.

Wise, cultivated, genial conversation is the last flower of civilization, and the best result which life has to offer us,—a cup for gods, which has no repentance. Conversation is our account of ourselves.—Woman.

The history of persecution is a history of endeavors to cheat nature, to make water run up-hill, to twist a rope of sand. It makes no difference whether the actors be many or one, a tyrant or a mob. The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of flame; every prison, a more illustrious abode; every burnedbook or house enlightens the world; every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through the earth from side to side. Hours of sanity and consideration are always arriving to communities as to individuals, when the truth is seen, and the martyrs are justified.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled.Here once the embattled farmers stoodAnd fired the shot heard round the world.The foe has long 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.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled.Here once the embattled farmers stoodAnd fired the shot heard round the world.

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 has long in silence slept:Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.

The foe has long 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.

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.

’Tis a fine fable for the advantage of character over talent, the Greek legend of the strife of Jove and Phœbus. Phœbus challenged the gods and said, “Who will outshoot the far-darting Apollo?” Zeus said, “I will.” Mars shook the lots in his helmet, and that of Apollo leaped out first. Apollo stretched his bow and shot his arrow into the extreme west. Then Zeus arose, and with one stride cleared the whole distance, and said, “Where shall I shoot? There is no space left.” So the bowman’s prize was adjudged to him who drew no bow.

Give to barrows, trays, and pansGrace and glimmer of romance;Bring the moonlight into noonHid in gleaming piles of stone;On the city’s pavèd streetPlant gardens lined with lilac sweet,Let spouting fountains cool the air,Singing in the sun-baked square;Let statue, picture, park, and hall,Ballad, flag, and festival,The past restore, the day adorn,And make each morrow a new morn.’Tis the privilege of ArtThus to play its cheerful part.

Give to barrows, trays, and pans

Grace and glimmer of romance;

Bring the moonlight into noon

Hid in gleaming piles of stone;

On the city’s pavèd street

Plant gardens lined with lilac sweet,

Let spouting fountains cool the air,

Singing in the sun-baked square;

Let statue, picture, park, and hall,

Ballad, flag, and festival,

The past restore, the day adorn,

And make each morrow a new morn.

’Tis the privilege of Art

Thus to play its cheerful part.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeingThen 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 here, brought you.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeingThen beauty is its own excuse for being.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This 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 here, brought you.

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask; I never knew,

But in my simple ignorance suppose

The self-same Power that brought me here, brought you.

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