And all his brethren cried with one accord, "Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! 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 numbers

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 brethren jostles,

Where'er there lingers but a shadow of wrong,

There still is need of martyrs and apostles,

There still are texts for never-dying song: From age to age man's still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes,

And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy great forerunners free and wise.

Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain

Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering 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 hear a mortal like an angel sing.

III

Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking

For who shall bring the Maker's name to light,

To be the voice of that 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-imbrowned 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 his looks; 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;

16

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil

That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands; This is the best crop from thy lands, A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A beritage, it seems to me. Well worth a life to hold in fee.

THE ROSE A BALLAD

I

In his tower sat the poet Gasing on the roaring sea.

"Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it
Where there 's none that loveth me.
On the rock the billow bursteth
And sinks back into the seas,
But in vain my spirit thirsteth
So to burst and be at ease.
Take, O sea! the tender blossom

That hath lain against my breast;
On thy black and angry bosom

It will find a surer rest.
Life is vain, and love is hollow,

Ugly death stands there behind,
Hate and scorn and hunger follow

Him that toileth for his kind." Forth into the night he hurled it,

And with bitter smile did mark
How the surly tempest whirled it

Swift into the hungry dark.
Foam and spray drive back to leeward,
And the gale, with dreary moan,
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,
Through the breakers all alone.

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Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow,

Tracing words upon the sand: "Shall I ever then behold him

Who hath been my life so long, Ever to this sick heart fold him,

Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters

Mine with love forevermore!" Swells the tide and overflows it,

But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it

Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own,

| For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.”