They lingering dropped and dropped

again, Till it was almost like a pain To listen when the next would be.


Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine

So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine,

And can but dream of bliss in store.


Thou canst not see a shade in life ;

With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife,

Gazest undazzled at the skies, With all their blazing splendors rife,

A songful lark with eagle's eyes. Thou wast some foundling whom the

Nursed, laughing, with the milk of

Some influence more gay than ours

Hath ruled thy nature from its birth,
As if thy natal stars were flowers
That shook their seeds round thee on

earth. And thou, to lull thine infant rest,

Wast cradled like an Indian child ; All pleasant winds from south and west

With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest,

Till Nature looked at thee and smiled.

TO M. L.
A LILY thou wast when I saw thee first,

A lily-bud not opened quite,
That hourly grew more pure and

white, By morning, and noontide, and evening

nursed: In all of nature thou hadst thy share ;

Thou wast waited on

By the wind and sun ; The rain and the dew for thee took care; It seemed thou never couldst be more

fair. A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,

A lily-bud ; but O, how strange,

How full of wonder was the change, When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full

bloom burst! How did the tearsto mygladeyes start,

When the woman-flower

Reached its blossoming hour, And I saw the warm deeps of thy

golden heart ! Glad death may pluck thee, but never

before The gold dust of thy bloom divine Hath dropped from thy heart into

mine, To quicken its faint germs of heavenly

lore; For no breeze comes nigh thee but

carries away

Some impulses bright

Of fragrance and light,
Which fall upon souls that are lone

and astray,
To plant fruitful hopes of the flower

of day.

Thine every fancy seems to borrow

A sunlight from thy childish years, Making a golden cloud of sorrow,

A hope-lit rainbow out of tears, Thy heart is certain of to-morrow,

Though 'yond to-day it never peers. I would more natures were like thine,

So innocently wild and free, Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and

shine, Like sunny wavelets in the sea, Making us mindless of the brine,

in gazing on the brilliancy.

THE FOUNTAIN. Into the sunshine,

Full of the light, Leaping and flashing,

From morn till night! Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,

ALLEGRA. I would more natures were like thine,

That never casts a glance before,

Waving so flower-like

When the winds blow !

take away.

Into the starlight

Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight,

Happy by day! Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary :Glad of all weathers,

Still seeming best, Upward or downward,

Motion thy rest ; Full of a nature

Nothing can tame, Changed every moment,

Ever the same;

his eyes.

Ceaseless aspiring,

Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine

Thy element;

Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's

hearse, Nor deem that souls whom Charon

grim had ferried Alone were fitting themesofepicverse: He could believe the promise of to

morrow, And feel the wondrous meaning of to

day; He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow

Than the world's seeming loss could To know the heart of all things was his

duty, All things did sing to him to make


wise, And, with a sorrowful and conquering

beauty, The soul of all looked grandly from He gazed on all within him and without

him, He watched the flowing of Time's

steady tide, And shapes of glory floated allabout him And whispered to him, and he

prophesied. Than all men he more fearless was and

freer, Apd all his brethren cried with one

accord, "Behold the holy nan! Behold the

Him who hath spoken with the unseen

Lord !"
He to his heart with large embrace had

taken The universal sorrow of mankind, And, from that root, a shelter never

shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy

rind. He could interpret well the wondrous

voices Which to the calm and silent spirit

come; He knew that the One Soul no more

rejoices In the star's anthem than the insect's

hum. He in his heart was ever meek and

humble, And yet with kingly pomp his num

Glorious fountain !

Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant,

Upward, like thee !



In the old days of awe and keen-eyed

wonder, The Poet's song with blood-warm

truth was rife; He saw the mysteries which circle under

Theoutwardshellandskin of daily life. Nothing to him were fleeting time and

fashion, His soul was led by the eternal law; There was in him no hope of fame, no

passion, But, with calm, godlike eyes he only

saw. He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and


bers ran,

As he foresaw how all things false

should crumble Before the free, uplifted soul of man : And, when he was made full to over

flowing With all the loveliness of heaven and

earth, Out rushed his song, like molten iron

glowing, To show God sitting by the humblest

hearth. With calmest courage he was ever ready To teach that action was the truth of

thought, And, with strong arm and purpose firm

and steady, An anchor for the drifting world he

wrought. Godid he makethemeanestman partaker

Ofall his brother-godsunto him gave; All souls did reverence him and name

him Maker, And when he died heaped temples on his

grave. And still his deathless words of light

are swimming Serene throughout the great deep in

finite Of human soul, unwaning and undim

ming, To cheer and guide the mariner at night.

II. But now the Poet is an empty rhymer

Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, And fits his singing, like acunningtimer, To all men's prides and fancies as

they pass. Nothisthe song, which, inits metre holy, Chimes with the music of the eternal

stars, Humblingthe tyrant, liftingup the lowly, And sending sun through the soul's

prison-bars. Maker no more, no! unmaker

rather, For he unmakes who doth not all put

forth The power given by our loving Father To show the body's dross, the spirit's

worth. Awake! great spirit of the ages olden ! Shiver the mists that hide thy starry


And let man's soul be yet again beholden

To thee for wings to soar to her desire. O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splen

dor, Be no more shamefaced to speak out

for Truth, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of

youth ! O, prophesy no more the Maker's

coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou

canst hear In the dim void, like to the awful hum

ming Of the great wings of some new-light

ed sphere ! 0, prophesy no more, but be the Poet !

Thislonging was but granted unto thee That, when all beauty thou couldst feel

and know it, That beauty in its highest thou couldst

be. O, thou who moanest tost with sealike

longings Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, Whose soul is overfilled with mighty

throngings Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron

sinews And soul by Mother Earth with free

dom fed, In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, The old free nature is not chained or

dead, Arouse ! let thy soul break in music

thunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee

pent, Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love,

thy wonder, And tell the age what all its signs

have meant. Where'er thy wildered crowd of breth

ren jostles, Where'er there lingers but a shade of

wrong, There still is need of martyrs and

apostles, There still are texts for never-dying

song: Fromage toage man's still aspiring spirit

Finds wider scope and sees with

clearer eyes,

And thou in larger measure dost inherit Whai made thy great forerunners free

and wise. Sit thou enthronëd where the Poet's

mountain Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gather

ing fountain, They all may drink and find the rest

they seek. Sing ! there shall silence grow in earth

and heaven, A silence of deep awe and wondering; For, listening gladly, bend the angels,

even, To htar a mortal like an angel sing.


Among the toil-worn poor my soul is

seeking For one to bring the Maker's name to

light, To bethe voiceofthat almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it

right. Proprieties our silken bards environ ; He who would be the tongue of this

wide land Must string his harp with chords of

sturdy iron And strike it with a toil-imbrownëd

hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well

attended, Who hath learnt wisdom from her

mystic books, Whose soul with all her countless lives

hath blended, So that all beauty awes us in hislooks ; Who not with body's waste his soul

hath pampered, Who as the clear northwestern wind

is free, Who walks with Form's observances

unhampered, And follows the One Will obediently; Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy

summit, Control a lovely prospect every way; Who doth not sound God's sea with

earthly plummet, And find a bottom still of worthless


Who heeds not how the lower gusts are

working, Knowing that one sure wind blows on

above, And sees, beneath the foulest faces

lurking, One God-built shrine of reverence

and love; Who sees all stars that wheel their

shining marches Around the centre fixed of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'er

arches The moving globe of being like a sky; Who feels that God and Heaven's great

deeps are nearer Him to whose heart his fellow-man is

nigh, Who doth not hold his soul's own free

dom dearer Than that of all his brethren, low or

high ; Who to the Right can feel himself the

truer For being gently patient with the

wrong, Who sees a brother in the evildoer, An

in Love the heart's-blood of his song ; This, this is he for whom the world is

waiting Tosingthe beatingsofits mighty heart, Too long hath it been patient with the

grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it mis

nained Art. To him the smiling soul of man shall

listen Laying awhile its crown of thorns

aside, And once again in every eye shall glisten

The glory of a nature satisfied. His verse shall have a great command

ing motion, Heaving and swelling with a melody Learntofthesky, che river, and theocean And all the pure, majestic things that

be. Awake, then, thou ! we pine for thy

great presence To make us feel the soul once more

sublime, We are of far too infinite an essence

Torestcontented with the lies of Time

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