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Forever yielding, never wholly won : Thatis not love which pauses in the race Two close-linked names on fleeting

sand to trace : Freedom gained yesterday is no more

ours: Men gather but dry seeds of last year's

flowers ; Still there's a charm ungranted, still a

grace, Still rosy Hope, the free, the unattained, Makes us Possession's languid hand

let fall; 'T is but a fragment of ourselves is

gained, The Future brings us more, but never

all.

Who on our rocks thy wreaths of free

dom flingest, As on an altar, - can it be that ye Have wasted inspiration on dead ears, Dulled with the too familiar clank of

chains ? The people's heart is like a harp for

years Hung where some petrifying torrent

rains Its slow-incrusting spray: the stiffened

chords Faint and more faint make answer to

the tears That drip upon them: idle are all words: Only a silver plectrum wakes the tone Deep buried 'neath that ever-thicken

ing stone. We are not free: Freedom doth not

consist in musing with our faces toward the

Past, While petty cares, and crawling inter

ests, twist Their spider-threads about us, which at

last Grow strong as iron chains, to cramp

and bind In formal narrowness heart, soul, and

mind. Freedom is recreated year by year, In hearts wide open on the Godward

side, In souls calm-cadenced as the whirling

sphere, In minds that sway the future like a tide. No broadest creeds can hold her, and

no codes : She chooses men for her august abodes, Building them fair and fronting to the

dawn ; Yet, when we seek her, we but find a

few Light footprints, leading morn-ward

through the dew: Before the day had risen, she was gone. And we must follow: swiftly runs she

on, And, if our steps should slacken in de

spair, Half turns her face, half smiles through

golden hair,

And, as the finder of some unknown

realm, Mounting a summit whence he thinks

to see On either side of him the imprisoning

sea, Beholds, above the clouds that over

whelm The valley-land, peak after snowy peak Stretch out of sight, each like a silver

helm Beneath its plume of smoke, sublime

and bleak, And what he thought an island finds

to be A continent to him first oped, Can from our height of Freedom look

along A boundless future,ours if we be strong; Or if we shrink, better remount our

ships And, fleeing God's express design, trace

back The hero-freighted Mayflower's pro

phet-track To Europe, entering her blood-red

eclipse.

SO we

BIBLIOLATRES.

Bowing thyself in dust before a Book, And thinking the great God is thine

alone, O rash iconoclast, thou wilt not brook

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What gods the heathen carves in wood

and stone, As if the Shepherd who from outer cold Leads all his shivering lambs to one

sure fold Were careful for the fashion of his

crook. There is no broken reed so poor and

base, No rush, the bending tilt of swamp-fly

blue, But he therewith the ravening wolf

can chase, And guide his flock to springs and

pastures new; Through ways unlooked for, and

through many lands, Far from the rich folds built with hu

man hands, The gracious footprints of his love I

trace. And what art thou, own brother of the

clod, 'I hat from his hand the crook would

snatch away, And shake instead thy dry and sapless

rod, To scare the sheep out of the whole

some day? Vea, what art ihou, blind, unconverted

Jew, 'I hat with thy idol-volume's covers two Wouldst make a jail to coop the living

God? hou hear'st not well the mountain

organ-tones Bly prophet ears from Hor and Sinai

caught, I hinking the cisterns of those He

brew brains Drew dry the springs of the All-know

er's thought, Nor shall thy lips be touched with liv

ing fire, Who blow'st old altar-coals with sole

desire To weld anew the spirit's broken

chains. God is not dumb, that he should speak 11 thou hast wanderings in the wilder

BEAVER BROOK

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. Warm noon brims full the valley's cup. The aspen's leaves are scarce astir ; Only the little mill sends up Its busy, never-ceasing burr. Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems The road along the mill-pond's brink, From 'neath the arching barberry.

stems, My footstep scares the shy chewink Beneath a bony buttonwood The mill's red door lets forth the din ; The whitened miller, dust-imbued, Flits past the square of dark within. No mountain torrent's strength is here Sweet Beaver, child of forest still, Heaps its small pitcher to the ear, Avd gently waits the miller's will.

no more ;

ness

Thick, here and there, with humar

blood, To turn the world's laborious wheels.

Swift slips Undine along the race Unheard, and then, with flashing bound, Floods the dull wheel with light and

grace, And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge

round. The miller dreams not at what cost The quivering millstones hum and

whirl, Nor how for every turn are tost Armfuls of diamond and pearl. But Summer cleared my happier eyes With 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,

No more than doth the miller there,
Shut in our several cells, do we
Know with what waste of beauty rare
Moves every day's machinery.
Surely the wiser time shall come
When this fine overplus of might,
No longer sullen, slow, and dumb,
Shall leap to music and to light.
In that new childhood of the Earth
Life of itself shail dance and play,
Fresh blood in Time's shrunk veins

make mirth,
And labor meet delight half-way.

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And stamped their dusty adoration ; I but looked upward with the rest, And, when they shouted Greatest,

whispered Best. They raised thee not, but rose to thee, Their fickle wreaths about thee

Ainging; Soon some marble Phæbus the high sea

Might leave his worthless seaweed

clinging, But pious hands, with reverent care, Make the pure limbs once more sub

limely bare. Now thou 'rt thy plain, grand self again,

Thou art secure from panegyric, Thou who gav'st politics an epic strain,

And actedst Freedom's noblest

lyric; This side the Blessed Isles, no tree Grows green enough to make a wreath

for thee. Nor can blame cling to thee; the snow

From swinish footprints takes no

staining, But, leaving the gross soils of earth

below, Its spirit mounts, the skies regain

ing, And unresenting falls again, To beautify the world with dews and

rain. The highest duty to mere man vouch

safed Was laid on thee, out of wild

chaos, When the roused popular ocean foamed

and chafed, And vulture War from his I maus Snuffed blood, to summon homely

Peace, And show that only order is release. To carve thy fullest thought, what

though Time was not granted ? Aye in

history, Like that Dawn's face which baffled

Angelo
Left shapeless, grander for its

mystery, Thy great Design shall stand, and day Flood its blind front from Orients far

away.

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Ynwi hering in the adverse popular

breath, Safe from the blasting demagogue's

applause ; 'Tis they who stand for Freedom and

God's laws.

feet ;

a

And so stands Palfrey now, as Marvell

stood, Loyal to Truth dethroned, nor could be

wooed To trust the playful tiger's velvet

paws: And if the second Charles brought in

decay Ofancient virtue, if it well might wring Souls that had broadened 'neath

nobler day, To see a losel, marketable king Fearsully watering with his realm's best

blood Cromwell's quenched bolts, that erst

had cracked and flamed, Scaring, through all their depths of

courtier mud, Europe's crowned bloodsuckers,

how more ashamed Dught we to be, who see Corruption's

flood Still rise o'er last year's mark, to mine

away Our brazen idols' feet of treacherous

clay! Outter degradation ! Freedom turned Slavery's vile bawd, to cozen and

betray To the old lecher's clutch a maiden

prey, If so a loathsome pander's fee be earned! And we are silent, – we who daily

tread A soil sublime, at least, with heroes' Beckon no more, shades of the noble

dead ! Be dumb, ye heaven-touched lips of

winds and waves ! Or hope to rouse some Coptic dullard,

hid Ages ago, wrapt stiffly, fold on fold, With cerements close, to wither in the

cold Forever hushed, and sunless pyramid!

Beauty and Truth, and all that these

contain, Drop not like ripened fruit about our We climb to them through years of

sweat and pain; Without long struggle, none did e er

attain The downward look from Quiet's bliss.

ful seat : Though present loss may be the hero's

part, Yet none can rob him of the victor

heart Whereby the broad-realmed future is

subdued, And Wrong, which now insults from

triumph's car,
Sending her vulture hope to raven far,
Is made unwilling tributary of Good.
O Mother State, how quenched thy

Sinai fires !
Is there none left of thy stanch May-

flower breed ? No spark among the ashes of thy sires, Of Virtue's altar-flame the kindling

seed? Are these thy great men, these ihat

cringe and creep, And writhe through slimy ways to

place and power? How long, O Lord, before thy wrath

shall reap Our frail-stemmed summer prosper

ings in their flower? O for one hour of that undaunted stock That went with Vane and Sydney to

the block !

aves !

O for a whiff of Naseby, that would

sweep, With its stern Puritan besom, all this

chaff From the Lord's threshing-floor! Yet

more than half The victory is attained, when one or

two, Through the fool's laughter and the

traitor's scorn, Beside thy sepulchre can abide the

morn, Cruci ied Truth, when thou sha) rise

anew,

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