What gnarlèd stretch, what depth of shade, is his!There needs no crown to mark the forest's king;How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss!Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring,5Which he with such benignant royaltyAccepts, as overpayeth what is lent;All nature seems his vassal proud to be,And cunning only for his ornament.How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows,10An unquelled exile from the summer's throne,Whose plain, uncinctured front more kingly shows,Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown.His boughs make music of the winter air,Jewelled with sleet, like some cathedral front15Where clinging snow-flakes with quaint art repairThe dents and furrows of time's envious brunt.How doth his patient strength the rude March windPersuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze,And win the soil, that fain would be unkind,20To swell his revenues with proud increase!He is the gem; and all the landscape wide(So doth his grandeur isolate the sense)Seems but the setting, worthless all beside,An empty socket, were he fallen thence.25So, from oft converse with life's wintry gales,Should man learn how to clasp with tougher rootsThe inspiring earth; how otherwise availsThe leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots?So every year that falls with noiseless flake30Should fill old scars up on the stormward side,And make hoar age revered for age's sake,Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride.So, from the pinched soil of a churlish fate,True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth,35So between earth and heaven stand simply great,That these shall seem but their attendants both;For nature's forces with obedient zealWait on the rooted faith and oaken will;As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel,40And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him still.Lord! all 'Thy works are lessons; each containsSome emblem of man's all-containing soul;Shall he make fruitless all thy glorious pains,Delving within thy grace an eyeless mole?45Make me the least of thy Dodona-grove,Cause me some message of thy truth to bring,Speak but a word through me, nor let thy loveAmong my boughs disdain to perch and sing.
What gnarlèd stretch, what depth of shade, is his!There needs no crown to mark the forest's king;How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss!Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring,5Which he with such benignant royaltyAccepts, as overpayeth what is lent;All nature seems his vassal proud to be,And cunning only for his ornament.
How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows,10An unquelled exile from the summer's throne,Whose plain, uncinctured front more kingly shows,Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown.His boughs make music of the winter air,Jewelled with sleet, like some cathedral front15Where clinging snow-flakes with quaint art repairThe dents and furrows of time's envious brunt.
How doth his patient strength the rude March windPersuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze,And win the soil, that fain would be unkind,20To swell his revenues with proud increase!He is the gem; and all the landscape wide(So doth his grandeur isolate the sense)Seems but the setting, worthless all beside,An empty socket, were he fallen thence.
25So, from oft converse with life's wintry gales,Should man learn how to clasp with tougher rootsThe inspiring earth; how otherwise availsThe leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots?So every year that falls with noiseless flake30Should fill old scars up on the stormward side,And make hoar age revered for age's sake,Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride.
So, from the pinched soil of a churlish fate,True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth,35So between earth and heaven stand simply great,That these shall seem but their attendants both;For nature's forces with obedient zealWait on the rooted faith and oaken will;As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel,40And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him still.
Lord! all 'Thy works are lessons; each containsSome emblem of man's all-containing soul;Shall he make fruitless all thy glorious pains,Delving within thy grace an eyeless mole?45Make me the least of thy Dodona-grove,Cause me some message of thy truth to bring,Speak but a word through me, nor let thy loveAmong my boughs disdain to perch and sing.
Hushed with broad sunlight lies the hill,And, minuting the long day's loss,The cedar's shadow, slow and still,Creeps o'er its dial of gray moss.5Warm noon brims full the valley's cup,The aspen's leaves are scarce astir;Only the little mill sends upIts busy, never-ceasing burr.Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems10The road along the mill-pond's brink,From 'neath the arching barberry-stemsMy footstep scares the shy chewink.Beneath a bony buttonwoodThe mill's red door lets forth the din;15The whitened miller, dust-imbued,Flits past the square of dark within.No mountain torrent's strength is here;Sweet Beaver, child of forest still,20Heaps its small pitcher to the ear,And gently waits the miller's will.Swift slips Undine along the raceUnheard, and then, with flashing bound,Floods the dull wheel with light and grace,And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge round.25The miller dreams not at what cost,The quivering millstones hum and whirl,Nor how for every turn are tostArmfuls of diamond and of pearl.But Summer cleared my happier eyes30With drops of some celestial juice,To see how Beauty underlies,Forevermore each form of use.And more; methought I saw that flood,Which now so dull and darkling steals,35Thick, here and there, with human blood,To turn the world's laborious wheels.No more than doth the miller there,Shut in our several cells, do weKnow with what waste of beauty rare40Moves every day's machinery.Surely the wiser time shall comeWhen this fine overplus of might,No longer sullen, slow, and dumb,Shall leap to music and to light.45In that new childhood of the EarthLife of itself shall dance and play,Fresh blood in Time's shrunk veins make mirth,And labor meet delight half-way.—
Hushed with broad sunlight lies the hill,And, minuting the long day's loss,The cedar's shadow, slow and still,Creeps o'er its dial of gray moss.
5Warm noon brims full the valley's cup,The aspen's leaves are scarce astir;Only the little mill sends upIts busy, never-ceasing burr.
Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems10The road along the mill-pond's brink,From 'neath the arching barberry-stemsMy footstep scares the shy chewink.
Beneath a bony buttonwoodThe mill's red door lets forth the din;15The whitened miller, dust-imbued,Flits past the square of dark within.
No mountain torrent's strength is here;Sweet Beaver, child of forest still,20Heaps its small pitcher to the ear,And gently waits the miller's will.
Swift slips Undine along the raceUnheard, and then, with flashing bound,Floods the dull wheel with light and grace,And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge round.
25The miller dreams not at what cost,The quivering millstones hum and whirl,Nor how for every turn are tostArmfuls of diamond and of pearl.
But Summer cleared my happier eyes30With drops of some celestial juice,To see how Beauty underlies,Forevermore each form of use.
And more; methought I saw that flood,Which now so dull and darkling steals,35Thick, here and there, with human blood,To turn the world's laborious wheels.
No more than doth the miller there,Shut in our several cells, do weKnow with what waste of beauty rare40Moves every day's machinery.
Surely the wiser time shall comeWhen this fine overplus of might,No longer sullen, slow, and dumb,Shall leap to music and to light.
45In that new childhood of the EarthLife of itself shall dance and play,Fresh blood in Time's shrunk veins make mirth,And labor meet delight half-way.—
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breastRuns a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climbTo the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime5Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instantaneous throe,When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro;At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start,Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart,10And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart.So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill,Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill,And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies with GodIn hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by the sod,15Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler clod.For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along,Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right or wrong;Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast frameThrough its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame;—20In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,25And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand,Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land?Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 't is Truth alone is strong,And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng30Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong.Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see,That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea;Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cryOf those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly;35Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but recordOne death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the Throne,—Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,40Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate,But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,—45"They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin."Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood,Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood,Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day,Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey;—50Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children play?Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust,Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just;Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside.Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,55And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes,—they were souls that stood alone,While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone,Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam inclineTo the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine,60By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back,And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learnedOne new word of that grandCredowhich in prophet-hearts hath burned65Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands,On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands;Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn,While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return70To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn.'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slavesOf a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves;Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;—Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time?75Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth Rock sublime?They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts,Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's;But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free,Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee80The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea.They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires,Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires;Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay,From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away85To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth;They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth;Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be,Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea,90Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key.
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breastRuns a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climbTo the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime5Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.
Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instantaneous throe,When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro;At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start,Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart,10And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart.
So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill,Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill,And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies with GodIn hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by the sod,15Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler clod.
For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along,Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right or wrong;Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast frameThrough its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame;—20In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.
Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,25And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.
Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand,Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land?Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 't is Truth alone is strong,And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng30Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong.
Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see,That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea;Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cryOf those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly;35Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.
Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but recordOne death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the Throne,—Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,40Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.
We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate,But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,—45"They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin."
Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood,Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood,Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day,Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey;—50Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children play?
Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust,Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just;Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside.Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,55And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.
Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes,—they were souls that stood alone,While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone,Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam inclineTo the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine,60By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.
By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back,And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learnedOne new word of that grandCredowhich in prophet-hearts hath burned65Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.
For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands,On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands;Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn,While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return70To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn.
'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slavesOf a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves;Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;—Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time?75Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth Rock sublime?
They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts,Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's;But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free,Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee80The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea.
They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires,Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires;Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay,From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away85To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?
New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth;They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth;Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be,Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea,90Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key.
God makes sech nights, all white an' stillFur 'z you can look or listen,Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,All silence an' all glisten.5Zekle crep' up quite unbeknownAn' peeked in thru' the winder,An' there sot Huldy all alone,With no one nigh to hender.A fireplace filled the room's one side10With half a cord o' wood in,—There warn't no stoves till comfort died,To bake ye to a puddin'.The wa'nut logs shot sparkles outToward the pootiest, bless her!15An' leetle flames danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser.Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,An' in amongst 'em rustedThe ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young20Fetched back from Concord busted.The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',An' she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin'.25'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blessed cretur,A dogrose blushin' to a brookAin't modester nor sweeter.He was six foot o' man, A 1,30Clearn grit an' human natur';None couldn't quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,35Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,—All is, he couldn't love 'em.But long o' her his veins 'ould runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o' sun40Ez a south slope in Ap'il.She thought no v'ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.45An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin'-bunnetFelt somehow thru' its crown a pairO' blue eyes sot upon it.Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!50She seemed to 've gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he'd come.Down to her very shoe-sole.She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,A-raspin' on the scraper,—55All ways to once her feelins flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.He kin'o' l'itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o' the sekle,His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,60But hern went pity Zekle.An' yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furder,An' on her apples kep' to work,Parin' away like murder.65"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?""Wal ... no ... I come designin'""To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'esAgin to-morrer's i'nin'."To say why gals acts so or so,70Or don't, would be presumin';Mebby to meanyesan' saynoComes nateral to women.He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t'other,75An' on which one he felt the wustHe could n't ha' told ye nuther.Says he, "I'd better call agin;"Says she, "Think likely, Mister:"That last word pricked him like a pin,80An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her.When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin' o' smily roun' the lipsAn' teary roun' the lashes.85For she was jist the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnowhid in Jenooary.The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued90Too tight for all expressin',Tell mother see how metters stood.An' gin 'em both her blessin'.Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o' Fundy,95An' all I know is they was criedIn meetin' come nex' Sunday.
God makes sech nights, all white an' stillFur 'z you can look or listen,Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,All silence an' all glisten.
5Zekle crep' up quite unbeknownAn' peeked in thru' the winder,An' there sot Huldy all alone,With no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room's one side10With half a cord o' wood in,—There warn't no stoves till comfort died,To bake ye to a puddin'.
The wa'nut logs shot sparkles outToward the pootiest, bless her!15An' leetle flames danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,An' in amongst 'em rustedThe ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young20Fetched back from Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',An' she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin'.
25'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blessed cretur,A dogrose blushin' to a brookAin't modester nor sweeter.
He was six foot o' man, A 1,30Clearn grit an' human natur';None couldn't quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,35Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,—All is, he couldn't love 'em.
But long o' her his veins 'ould runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o' sun40Ez a south slope in Ap'il.
She thought no v'ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.
45An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin'-bunnetFelt somehow thru' its crown a pairO' blue eyes sot upon it.
Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!50She seemed to 've gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he'd come.Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,A-raspin' on the scraper,—55All ways to once her feelins flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin'o' l'itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o' the sekle,His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,60But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furder,An' on her apples kep' to work,Parin' away like murder.
65"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?""Wal ... no ... I come designin'""To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'esAgin to-morrer's i'nin'."
To say why gals acts so or so,70Or don't, would be presumin';Mebby to meanyesan' saynoComes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t'other,75An' on which one he felt the wustHe could n't ha' told ye nuther.
Says he, "I'd better call agin;"Says she, "Think likely, Mister:"That last word pricked him like a pin,80An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin' o' smily roun' the lipsAn' teary roun' the lashes.
85For she was jist the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnowhid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued90Too tight for all expressin',Tell mother see how metters stood.An' gin 'em both her blessin'.
Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o' Fundy,95An' all I know is they was criedIn meetin' come nex' Sunday.
JULY 21, 1865
I.
Weak-winged is song,Nor aims at that clear-ethered heightWhither the brave deed climbs for light:We seem to do them wrong,5Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearseWho in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse,Our trivial song to honor those who comeWith ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum,And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire,10Live battle-odes whose lines were steel and fire:Yet sometimes feathered words are strong,A gracious memory to buoy up and saveFrom Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common graveOf the unventurous throng.
Weak-winged is song,Nor aims at that clear-ethered heightWhither the brave deed climbs for light:We seem to do them wrong,5Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearseWho in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse,Our trivial song to honor those who comeWith ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum,And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire,10Live battle-odes whose lines were steel and fire:Yet sometimes feathered words are strong,A gracious memory to buoy up and saveFrom Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common graveOf the unventurous throng.
II.
15To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes backHer wisest Scholars, those who understoodThe deeper teaching of her mystic tome,And offered their fresh lives to make it good:No lore of Greece or Rome,20No science peddling with the names of things,Or reading stars to find inglorious fates,Can lift our life with wingsFar from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits,And lengthen out our dates25With that clear fame whose memory singsIn manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates:Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all!Not such the trumpet-callOf thy diviner mood,30That could thy sons enticeFrom happy homes and toils, the fruitful nestOf those half-virtues which the world calls best,Into War's tumult rude:But rather far that stern device35The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stoodIn the dim; unventured wood,The VERITAS that lurks beneathThe letter's unprolific sheath,Life of whate'er makes life worth living,40Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food,One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving.
15To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes backHer wisest Scholars, those who understoodThe deeper teaching of her mystic tome,And offered their fresh lives to make it good:No lore of Greece or Rome,20No science peddling with the names of things,Or reading stars to find inglorious fates,Can lift our life with wingsFar from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits,And lengthen out our dates25With that clear fame whose memory singsIn manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates:Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all!Not such the trumpet-callOf thy diviner mood,30That could thy sons enticeFrom happy homes and toils, the fruitful nestOf those half-virtues which the world calls best,Into War's tumult rude:But rather far that stern device35The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stoodIn the dim; unventured wood,The VERITAS that lurks beneathThe letter's unprolific sheath,Life of whate'er makes life worth living,40Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food,One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving.
III.
Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oilAmid the dust of books to find her,Content at last, for guerdon of their toil,45With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.Many in sad faith sought for her,Many with crossed hands sighed for her;But these, our brothers, fought for her,At life's dear peril wrought for her,50So loved her that they died for her,Tasting the raptured fleetnessOf her divine completeness:Their higher instinct knewThose love her best who to themselves are true,55And what they dare to dream of, dare to do;They followed her and found herWhere all may hope to find,Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her.60Where faith made whole with deedBreathes its awakening breathInto the lifeless creed,They saw her plumed and mailed,With sweet, stern face unveiled,65And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death.
Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oilAmid the dust of books to find her,Content at last, for guerdon of their toil,45With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.Many in sad faith sought for her,Many with crossed hands sighed for her;But these, our brothers, fought for her,At life's dear peril wrought for her,50So loved her that they died for her,Tasting the raptured fleetnessOf her divine completeness:Their higher instinct knewThose love her best who to themselves are true,55And what they dare to dream of, dare to do;They followed her and found herWhere all may hope to find,Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her.60Where faith made whole with deedBreathes its awakening breathInto the lifeless creed,They saw her plumed and mailed,With sweet, stern face unveiled,65And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death.
IV.
Our slender life runs rippling by, and glidesInto the silent hollow of the past;What Is there that abidesTo make the next age better for the last?70Is earth too poor to give usSomething to live for here that shall outlive us,—Some more substantial boonThan such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle moon?The little that we see75From doubt is never free;The little that we doIs but half-nobly true;With our laborious hivingWhat men call treasure, and the gods call dross,80Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving,Only secure in every one's conniving,A long account of nothings paid with loss,Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires,After our little hour of strut and rave,85With all our pasteboard passions and desires,Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires,Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave.Ah, there is something hereUnfathomed by the cynic's sneer,90Something that gives our feeble lightA high immunity from Night,Something that leaps life's narrow barsTo claim its birthright with the hosts of heaven;A seed of sunshine that doth leaven95Our earthly dulness with the beams of stars,And glorify our clayWith light from fountains elder than the Day;A conscience more divine than we,A gladness fed with secret tears,100A vexing, forward-reaching senseOf some more noble permanence;A light across the sea,Which haunts the soul and will not let it be,Still glimmering from the heights of undegenerate years.
Our slender life runs rippling by, and glidesInto the silent hollow of the past;What Is there that abidesTo make the next age better for the last?70Is earth too poor to give usSomething to live for here that shall outlive us,—Some more substantial boonThan such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle moon?The little that we see75From doubt is never free;The little that we doIs but half-nobly true;With our laborious hivingWhat men call treasure, and the gods call dross,80Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving,Only secure in every one's conniving,A long account of nothings paid with loss,Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires,After our little hour of strut and rave,85With all our pasteboard passions and desires,Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires,Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave.Ah, there is something hereUnfathomed by the cynic's sneer,90Something that gives our feeble lightA high immunity from Night,Something that leaps life's narrow barsTo claim its birthright with the hosts of heaven;A seed of sunshine that doth leaven95Our earthly dulness with the beams of stars,And glorify our clayWith light from fountains elder than the Day;A conscience more divine than we,A gladness fed with secret tears,100A vexing, forward-reaching senseOf some more noble permanence;A light across the sea,Which haunts the soul and will not let it be,Still glimmering from the heights of undegenerate years.
V.
105Whither leads the pathTo ampler fates that leads?Not down through flowery meads,To reap an aftermathOf youth's vainglorious weeds,110But up the steep, amid the wrathAnd shock of deadly hostile creeds,Where the world's best hope and stayBy battle's flashes gropes a desperate way,And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds.115Peace hath her not ignoble wreath,Ere yet the sharp, decisive wordLights the black lips of cannon, and the swordDreams in its easeful sheath:But some day the live coal behind the thought.120Whether from Baäl's stone obscene,Or from the shrine sereneOf God's pure altar brought,Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and penLearns with what deadly purpose it was fraught,125And, helpless in the fiery passion caught,Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men:Some day the soft Ideal that we wooedConfronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued,And cries reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise,130And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth;I claim of thee the promise of thy youth;Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase,The victim of thy genius, not its mate!"Life may be given in many ways,135And loyalty to Truth be sealedAs bravely in the closet as the field,So generous is Fate;But then to stand beside her,When craven churls deride her,140To front a lie in arms and not to yield,—This shows, methinks, God's planAnd measure of a stalwart man,Limbed like the old heroic breeds,Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth,145Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,Fed from within with all the strength he needs.
105Whither leads the pathTo ampler fates that leads?Not down through flowery meads,To reap an aftermathOf youth's vainglorious weeds,110But up the steep, amid the wrathAnd shock of deadly hostile creeds,Where the world's best hope and stayBy battle's flashes gropes a desperate way,And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds.115Peace hath her not ignoble wreath,Ere yet the sharp, decisive wordLights the black lips of cannon, and the swordDreams in its easeful sheath:But some day the live coal behind the thought.120Whether from Baäl's stone obscene,Or from the shrine sereneOf God's pure altar brought,Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and penLearns with what deadly purpose it was fraught,125And, helpless in the fiery passion caught,Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men:Some day the soft Ideal that we wooedConfronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued,And cries reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise,130And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth;I claim of thee the promise of thy youth;Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase,The victim of thy genius, not its mate!"Life may be given in many ways,135And loyalty to Truth be sealedAs bravely in the closet as the field,So generous is Fate;But then to stand beside her,When craven churls deride her,140To front a lie in arms and not to yield,—This shows, methinks, God's planAnd measure of a stalwart man,Limbed like the old heroic breeds,Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth,145Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,Fed from within with all the strength he needs.
VI.
Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,Whom late the Nation he had led,With ashes on her head,150Wept with the passion of an angry grief:Forgive me, if from present things I turnTo speak what in my heart will beat and burn,And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.Nature, they say, doth dote,155And cannot make a manSave on some worn-out plan,Repeating us by rote:For him her Old-World mould aside she threw,And, choosing sweet clay from the breast160Of the unexhausted West,With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.How beautiful to seeOnce more a shepherd of mankind indeed,165Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,Not lured by any cheat of birth,But by his clear-grained human worth,And brave old wisdom of sincerity!170They knew that outward grace is dust;They could not choose but trustIn that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,And supple-tempered willThat bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.175Nothing of Europe here,Or, then, of Europe fronting morn-ward still,Ere any names of Serf and PeerCould Nature's equal scheme deface;Here was a type of the true elder race,180And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.I praise him not; it were too late;And some innative weakness there must beIn him who condescends to victorySuch as the Present gives, and cannot wait,185Safe in himself as in a fate.So always firmly he:He knew to bide his time,And can his fame abide,Still patient in his simple faith sublime,190Till the wise years decide.Great captains, with their guns and drums,Disturb our judgment for the hour,But at last silence comes;These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,195Our children shall behold his fame,The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,New birth of our new soil, the first American.
Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,Whom late the Nation he had led,With ashes on her head,150Wept with the passion of an angry grief:Forgive me, if from present things I turnTo speak what in my heart will beat and burn,And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.Nature, they say, doth dote,155And cannot make a manSave on some worn-out plan,Repeating us by rote:For him her Old-World mould aside she threw,And, choosing sweet clay from the breast160Of the unexhausted West,With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.How beautiful to seeOnce more a shepherd of mankind indeed,165Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,Not lured by any cheat of birth,But by his clear-grained human worth,And brave old wisdom of sincerity!170They knew that outward grace is dust;They could not choose but trustIn that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,And supple-tempered willThat bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.175Nothing of Europe here,Or, then, of Europe fronting morn-ward still,Ere any names of Serf and PeerCould Nature's equal scheme deface;Here was a type of the true elder race,180And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.I praise him not; it were too late;And some innative weakness there must beIn him who condescends to victorySuch as the Present gives, and cannot wait,185Safe in himself as in a fate.So always firmly he:He knew to bide his time,And can his fame abide,Still patient in his simple faith sublime,190Till the wise years decide.Great captains, with their guns and drums,Disturb our judgment for the hour,But at last silence comes;These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,195Our children shall behold his fame,The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,New birth of our new soil, the first American.
VII.
Long as man's hope insatiate can discern200Or only guess some more inspiring goalOutside of Self, enduring as the pole,Along whose course the flying axles burnOf spirits bravely-pitched, earth's manlier brood;Long as below we cannot find205The meed that stills the inexorable mind;So long this faith to some ideal Good,Under whatever mortal names it masks,Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal moodThat thanks the Fates for their severer tasks,210Feeling its challenged pulses leap,While others skulk in subterfuges cheap,And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon it asks,Shall win man's praise and woman's love;Shall be a wisdom that we set above215All other skills and gifts to culture dear,A virtue round whose forehead we enwreatheLaurels that with a living passion breatheWhen other crowns are cold and soon grow sere.What brings us thronging these high rites to pay,220And seal these hours the noblest of our year,Save that our brothers found this better way?
Long as man's hope insatiate can discern200Or only guess some more inspiring goalOutside of Self, enduring as the pole,Along whose course the flying axles burnOf spirits bravely-pitched, earth's manlier brood;Long as below we cannot find205The meed that stills the inexorable mind;So long this faith to some ideal Good,Under whatever mortal names it masks,Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal moodThat thanks the Fates for their severer tasks,210Feeling its challenged pulses leap,While others skulk in subterfuges cheap,And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon it asks,Shall win man's praise and woman's love;Shall be a wisdom that we set above215All other skills and gifts to culture dear,A virtue round whose forehead we enwreatheLaurels that with a living passion breatheWhen other crowns are cold and soon grow sere.What brings us thronging these high rites to pay,220And seal these hours the noblest of our year,Save that our brothers found this better way?
VIII.
We sit here in the Promised LandThat flows with Freedom's honey and milk;But 'twas they won it, sword in hand,225Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk.We welcome back our bravest and our best:—Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest,Who went forth brave and bright as any here!I strive to mix some gladness with my strain,230But the sad strings complain,And will not please the ear:I sweep them for a paean, but they waneAgain and yet againInto a dirge, and die away in pain.235In these brave ranks I only see the gaps,Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps,Dark to the triumph which they died to gain:Fitlier may others greet the living,For me the past is unforgiving;240I with uncovered headSalute the sacred dead,Who went, and who return not,—Say not so!'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay,But the high faith that failed not by the way;245Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave;No ban of endless night exiles the brave:And to the saner mindWe rather seem the dead that stayed behind.Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow!250For never shall their aureoled presence lack:I see them muster in a gleaming row,With ever-youthful brows that nobler show;We find in our dull road their shining track;In every nobler mood255We feel the orient of their spirit glow,Part of our life's unalterable good,Of all our saintlier aspiration;They come transfigured back,Secure from change in their high-hearted ways,260Beautiful evermore, and with the raysOf morn on their white Shields of Expectation!
We sit here in the Promised LandThat flows with Freedom's honey and milk;But 'twas they won it, sword in hand,225Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk.We welcome back our bravest and our best:—Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest,Who went forth brave and bright as any here!I strive to mix some gladness with my strain,230But the sad strings complain,And will not please the ear:I sweep them for a paean, but they waneAgain and yet againInto a dirge, and die away in pain.235In these brave ranks I only see the gaps,Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps,Dark to the triumph which they died to gain:Fitlier may others greet the living,For me the past is unforgiving;240I with uncovered headSalute the sacred dead,Who went, and who return not,—Say not so!'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay,But the high faith that failed not by the way;245Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave;No ban of endless night exiles the brave:And to the saner mindWe rather seem the dead that stayed behind.Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow!250For never shall their aureoled presence lack:I see them muster in a gleaming row,With ever-youthful brows that nobler show;We find in our dull road their shining track;In every nobler mood255We feel the orient of their spirit glow,Part of our life's unalterable good,Of all our saintlier aspiration;They come transfigured back,Secure from change in their high-hearted ways,260Beautiful evermore, and with the raysOf morn on their white Shields of Expectation!
IX.
Who now shall sneer?Who dare again to say we traceOur lines to a plebeian race?265Roundhead and Cavalier!Dreams are those names erewhile in battle loud;Forceless as is the shadow of a cloud,They live but in the ear:That is best blood that hath most iron, in 't,270To edge resolve with, pouring without stintFor what makes manhood dear.Tell us not of Plantagenets,Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawlDown from some victor in a border-brawl!275How poor their outworn coronets,Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreathOur brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath,Through whose desert a rescued Nation setsHer heel on treason, and the trumpet hears280Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen earsWith vain resentments and more vain regrets!
Who now shall sneer?Who dare again to say we traceOur lines to a plebeian race?265Roundhead and Cavalier!Dreams are those names erewhile in battle loud;Forceless as is the shadow of a cloud,They live but in the ear:That is best blood that hath most iron, in 't,270To edge resolve with, pouring without stintFor what makes manhood dear.Tell us not of Plantagenets,Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawlDown from some victor in a border-brawl!275How poor their outworn coronets,Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreathOur brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath,Through whose desert a rescued Nation setsHer heel on treason, and the trumpet hears280Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen earsWith vain resentments and more vain regrets!
X.
Not in anger, not in pride,Pure from passion's mixture rude,Ever to base earth allied,285But with far-heard gratitude,Still with heart and voice renewed,To heroes living and dear martyrs dead,The strain should close that consecrates our brave.Lift the heart and lift the head!290Lofty be its mood and grave,Not without a martial ring,Not without a prouder treadAnd a peal of exultation:Little right has he to sing295Through whose heart in such an hourBeats no march of conscious power,Sweeps no tumult of elation!'Tis no Man we celebrate,By his country's victories great,300A hero half, and half the whim of Fate,But the pith and marrow of a NationDrawing force from all her men,Highest, humblest, weakest, all,—Pulsing it again through them,305Till the basest can no longer cower,Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall,Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem.Come back, then, noble pride, for 'tis her dower!How could poet ever tower,310If his passions, hopes, and fears,If his triumphs and his tears,Kept not measure with his people?Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves!Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple!315Banners, advance with triumph, bend your staves!And from every mountain-peakLet beacon-fire to answering beacon speak,Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he,And so leap on in light from sea to sea,320Till the glad news be sentAcross a kindling continent,Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver:"Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her!She that lifts up the manhood of the poor,325She of the open soul and open door,With room about her hearth for all mankind!The helm from her bold front she doth unbind,Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin,330And bids her navies hold their thunders in.No challenge sends she to the elder world,That looked askance and hated; a light scornPlays on her mouth, as round her mighty kneesShe calls her children back, and waits the morn335Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas."
Not in anger, not in pride,Pure from passion's mixture rude,Ever to base earth allied,285But with far-heard gratitude,Still with heart and voice renewed,To heroes living and dear martyrs dead,The strain should close that consecrates our brave.Lift the heart and lift the head!290Lofty be its mood and grave,Not without a martial ring,Not without a prouder treadAnd a peal of exultation:Little right has he to sing295Through whose heart in such an hourBeats no march of conscious power,Sweeps no tumult of elation!'Tis no Man we celebrate,By his country's victories great,300A hero half, and half the whim of Fate,But the pith and marrow of a NationDrawing force from all her men,Highest, humblest, weakest, all,—Pulsing it again through them,305Till the basest can no longer cower,Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall,Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem.Come back, then, noble pride, for 'tis her dower!How could poet ever tower,310If his passions, hopes, and fears,If his triumphs and his tears,Kept not measure with his people?Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves!Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple!315Banners, advance with triumph, bend your staves!And from every mountain-peakLet beacon-fire to answering beacon speak,Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he,And so leap on in light from sea to sea,320Till the glad news be sentAcross a kindling continent,Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver:"Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her!She that lifts up the manhood of the poor,325She of the open soul and open door,With room about her hearth for all mankind!The helm from her bold front she doth unbind,Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin,330And bids her navies hold their thunders in.No challenge sends she to the elder world,That looked askance and hated; a light scornPlays on her mouth, as round her mighty kneesShe calls her children back, and waits the morn335Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas."
XI.