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The invisible Spirit whose first breath

divine Scattered thy frail endeavor, And, like poor last year's leaves,

whirled thee and thine Into the Dark forever !

VII.
Is here no triumph? Nay, what

though The yellow blood of Trade meanwhile

should pour Along its arteries a shrunken flow, And the idle canvas droop around the

shore ?
These do not make a state,
Nor keep it great ;

I think God made
The earth for man, not trade;
And where each humblest human crea-

ture Can stand, no more suspicious or

afraid, Erect and kingly in his right of nature, To heaven and earth knit with harmo

nious ties,
Where I behold the exultation
Of manhood glowing in those eyes

That had been dark for ages, –
Or only lit with bestial loves and

rages
There I behold a Nation :

The France which lies
Between the Pyrenees and Rhine

Is the least part of France ;
I see her rather in the soul whose shine
Burns through the craftsman's grimy

countenance,
In the new energy divine

Of Toil's enfranchised glance.

Throbbing, as throbs the bosom, hot

and fast :
Such visions are of morning,

Theirs is no vague forewarning, The dreams which nations dream corne

true,
And shape the world anew;

If this be a sleep,

Make it long, make it deep, O Father, who sendest ihe harvests

men reap !
While Labor so sleepeth

His sorrow is gone,
No longer he weepeth,
But smileth and steepeth

His thoughts in the dawn;
He heareth Hope yonder

Rain, lark-like, her fancies,
His dreaming hands wander

'Mid heart's-ease and pansies; 'Tis a dream ! 'Tis a vision !”

Shrieks Mammon aghast;
The day's broad derision

Will chase it at last;
Ye are mad, ye have taken
A slumbering kraken

For firm land of the Past!”
Ah! if he awaken,

God shield us all then,
If this dream rudely shaken
Shall cheat him again !

IX.
Since first I heard our North wind

blow,
Since first I saw Atlantic throw
On our fierce rocks his thunderous

snow, I loved thee, Freedom ; as a boy The rattle of thy shield at Marathon

Did with a Grecian joy

Through all my pulses run; But I have learned to love thee now Without the helm upon thy gleaming

brow, A maiden mild and undefiled Like her who bore the world's redeem.

ing child ;
And surely never did thy altars glance
With purer fires than now in France;
While, in their bright white flashes,

Wrong's shadow, backward cast,
Waves cowering o'er the ashes

Of the dead, blaspheming Past,

VIII. And if it be a dream, If the great Future be the little Past 'Neath a new mask, which drops and

shows at last The same weird, mocking face to

balk and blast, Yet, Muse, a gladder measure suits the

theme, And the Tyrtæan harp Loves notes more resolute and

sharp,

O'er the shapes of fallen giants,

His own unburied brood, Whose dead hands clench defiance

At the overpowering Good : And down the happy future runs a flood

Of prophesying light : It shows an Earth no longer stained

with blood, Blossom and fruit where now we see the

bud Of Brotherhood and Right.

ANTI-APIS.

PRAISEST Law, friend? We, too, love

it much as they that love it best ; 'Tis the deep, august foundation, where

on Peace and Justice rest ; On the rock primeval, hidden in the

Past its bases be, Block by block the endeavoring Ages

built it up to what we see.

But dig down : the Old unbury; thou

shalt find on every stone That each Age hath carved the symbol

o what god to them was known. Ugly shapes and brutish sometimes,

but the fairest that they knew ; If their sight were dim and earthward,

yet their hope and aim were true.

Law is holy : ay, but what law? Is

there nothing more divine Than the patched-up broils of Con

gress, - venal, full of meat and

wine? Is there, say you, nothing higher?

Naught, God save us! that tran

scends Laws of cotton texture, wove by vulgar

men for vulgar ends? Did Jehovah ask their counsel, or sub

mit to them a plan, Ere he filled with loves, hopes, long.

ings, this aspiring heart of man? For their edict does the soul wait, ere it

swing round to the pole of the true, the free, the God-willed,

all that makes it be a soul? Law is holy: but not your law, ye who

keep the tablets whole While ye dash the Law to pieces, shat

ter it in life and soul; Bearing up the Ark is lightsome, golden

Apis hid within, While we Levites share the offerings,

richer by the people's sin. Give to Cæsar what is Cæsar's? yes,

but tell me, if you can, Is this superscription Cæsar's here upon

our brother man? Is not here some other's image, dark

and sullied though it be, In this fellow-soul that worships, strug

gles Godward even as we? It was not to such a future that the May

flower's prow was turned ; Not to such a faith the martyrs clung,

exulting as they burned ; Not by such laws are men fashioned,

earnest, simple, valiant, great In the household virtues whereon rests

the unconquerable state. Ah! there is a higher gospel, overhead

the God-roof springs, And each glad, obedient planet like a

golden shuttle sings Through the web which Time is weav

ing in his never-resting loom, Weaving seasons many-colored, hring:

ing prophecy to doom.

Surely as the unconscious needle feels

the far-off loadstar draw, So strives every gracious nature to

at-one itself with law; And the elder Saints and Sages laid

their pious framework right By a theocratic instinct covered from

the people's sight.

As their gods were, so their laws were ;

Thor the strong could reave and

steal, So through many a peaceful inlet tore

the Norseman's eager keel ; But a new law came when Christ came,

and not blameless, as before, Lan we, paying him our lip-tithes, give

our lives and faiths to Thor.

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These set he in the midst of them,
And as they drew back their garment-

hem, For fear of defilement, "Lo, here,"

said he, The images ye have made of me!"

ODE

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION

THE INTRODUCTION OF THE COCHITUATE WATER INTO THE CITY OF BOSTON

A sight in Paradise denied
To untallen Adam and his bride.
When Winter held me in his grip,

You seized and sent me o'er the wave, Ungrateful! in a prison-ship:

But I forgive, not long a slave, For, soon as summer south-winds blew, Homeward I fled, disguised as dew. For countless services I 'm fit,

Of use, of pleasure, and of gain, But lightly from all bonds I flit,

Nor lose my mirth, nor feel a stain; From mill and wash-tub I escape, And take in heaven my proper shape. So, free myself, to-day, elate

I come from far o'er hill and mead, And here, Cochituate's envoywait

To be your blithesome Ganymede, And brim your cups with nectar true That never will make slaves of you.

LINES

My name is Water: I have sped Through strange, dark ways, untried

before,
By pure desire of friendship led,

Cochituate's ambassador;
He sends four royal gifts by me:
Long life, health, peace, and purity.
I’m Ceres' cup-bearer; I pour,

For flowers and fruits and all their kin, Her crystal vintage, from of yore

Stored in old Earth's selectest bin, Flora's Falernian ripe, since God The wine-press of the deluge trod. In that far isle whence, iron-willed, The New World's sires their bark

unmoored, The fairies' acorn-cups I filled

Upon the toadstool's silver board, And, 'neath Herne's oak, for Shake

speare's sight, Strewed moss and grass with diamonds

bright.

SUGGESTED BY THE GRAVES OF TWO

ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD BATTLE-GROUND.

The same good blood that now refills The dotard Orient's shrunken veins, The same whose vigor westward thrills, Bursting Nevada's silver chains, Poured here upon the April grass, Freckled with red the herbage new ; On reeled the battle's trampling mass, Back to the ash the bluebird fiew.

No fairies in the Mayflower came,

And, lightsome as I sparkle here, For Mother Bay State, busy dame, I've toiled and drudged this many a

year, Throbbed in her engines' iron veins, Twirled myriad spindles for her gains. i, too, can weave : the warp I set Through which the sun his shuttle

throws, And, bright as Noah saw it, yet for you the arching rainbow glows,

7

Poured here in vain;- that sturdy blood Was meant to make the earth more

green, But in a higher, gentler mood Than broke this April noon serene ; Twogravesare here: to mark the place, At head and foot, an unhewn stone, O'er which the herald lichens trace The blazon of Oblivion.

These men were brave enough, and true To the hired soldier's bull-dog creed : What brought them here they never

knew,

When all our good secus brand in

sheaves, And we stand reaped and bare.

Our seasons have no fixed returns,

Without our will they come and go; At noon our sudden summer burns,

Ere sunset all is snow.

They fought as suits the English breed; They came three thousand miles, and

died, To keep the Past upon its throne; Unheard, beyond the ocean tide, Their English mother made her moan. The turf that covers them no thrill Sends up to fire the heart and brain ; No stronger purpose nerves the will, No hope renews its youth again : From farm to farm the Concord glides, And trails my fancy with its flow; O’erhead the balanced hen-hawk slides, Twinned in the river's heaven below. But go, whose Bay State bosom stirs, Proud of thy birth and neighbor's right, Where sleep the heroic villagers Borne red and stiff from Concord fight; Thought Reuben, snatching down his

gun, Or Seth, as ebbed the life away, What earthquake rifts would shoot and World-wide from that short April fray? What then? With heart and hand they

wrought, According to their village light ; "T was for the Future that they fought, Their rustic faith in what was right. Upon earth's tragic stage they burst Unsummoned, in the humble sock; Theirs the fifth act; the curtain first Rose long ago on Charles's block. Their graves have voices; if they threw Dice charged with fates beyond their

ken, Yet to their instincts they were true, And had the genius to be men. Fine privilege of Freedom's host, Of even foot-soldiers for the Right ! For centuries dead, ye are not lost, Your graves send courage forth, and

might.

But each day brings less summer cheer,

Crimps more our ineffectual spring, And something earlier every year

Our singing birds take wing. As less the olden glow abides,

And less the chillier heart aspires, With drift-wood beached in past spring.

tides We light our sullen fires. By the pinched rushlight's starving

beam We cower and strain our wasted sight, To stitch youth's shroud up, seam by

seam, In the long arctic night. It was not so we once were young When Spring, to womanly Summer

turning, Her dew-drops on each grass-blade

strung, In the red sunrise burning. We trusted then, aspired, believed

That earth could be remade to-mor

run

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