So the men plied their work of hopeless war, And knew that the end was near. It was not long ere it must be heard,— It was no noise of the strife afar, It was the pipes of the Highlanders, And they wept and shook one another's hands, And every one knelt down where we stood, That happy day, when we welcomed them, And the General took her hand, and cheers And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'd, And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, For the pipes play'd “ Auld Lang Syne." 66 LOVE DISPOSED OF. HERE goes Love! Now cut him clear, In the deep he may sleep, He said he'd woo the gentle breeze, But she was false or hard to please, He may find a truer mind He sang us many a merry song Under the wave Let him sing where smooth shells ring He may struggle; he may weep; His grief will find, within the deep, More tears than can be told. He has gone overboard! We will float on; We shall find a truer wind Now that he is gone. HENRY DAVID THOREAU. Born at Boston, Mass: 1817-died 1862. INSPIRATION. IF with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of any thing, The verse is weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope, Listening behind me for my wit, More anxious to keep back than forward it; Making my soul accomplice there. Unto the flame my heart hath lit, Then will the verse for ever wear,— Time cannot bend the line which God has writ. I hearing get, who had but ears, And sight, who had but eyes before; I moments live, who lived but years, And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore. Now chiefly is my natal hour, And only now my prime of life: Of manhood's strength it is the flower, "Tis peace's end, and war's beginning strife. It comes in summer's broadest noon, I will not doubt the love untold Which not my worth nor want hath bought, UPON THE BEACH. My life is like a stroll upon the beach, My sole employment 'tis and scrupulous care I have but few companions on the shore,— The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, And I converse with many a shipwreck'd crew. WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.* Born at Boston, Mass: 1818 THE FLIGHT OF THE WILD GEESE. RAMBLING along the marshes, Whether I was in the right, Toiling to lift Time's curtain, And if I burnt the strongest light,— High in the air, I heard the travel'd geese Their overture prepare. Stirr❜d above the patcht ball, The wild geese flew, Nor near so wild as that doth me befall, Or, swollen Wisdom! you. In the front there fetch'd a leader, Him behind the line spread out, And waved about, As it was near night, When these air-pilots stop their flight. Cruising off the shoal dominion Where we sit; Depending not on their opinion, Nor hiving sops of wit; *See Note 19. Geographical in tact, Naming not a pond or river; Spectators at the play below, Cannot laud and map the stars Nor taste the sweetmeats in odd jars ; Feathers glossy, quills in order; 66 "Up, my feather'd fowl! all! " Saith the goose commander; "Brighten your bills, and flirt your pinions, Or suck puddles in Campeachy; "Let's brush loose for any creek, Flutter not about a place, Ye concomitants of space!" Mute the listening nations stand On that dark receding land; How faint their villages and towns, Appears no bigger than a mouse! |