Chapter 14
I bear in youth the sad infirmities That use to undo the limb and sense of age; It hath pleased Heaven to break the dream of bliss Which lit my onward way with bright presage, And my unserviceable limbs forego. The sweet delight I found in fields and farms, On windy hills, whose tops with morning glow, And lakes, smooth mirrors of Aurora's charms. Yet I think on them in the silent night, Still breaks that morn, though dim, to Memory's eye, And the firm soul does the pale train defy Of grim Disease, that would her peace affright. Please God, I'll wrap me in mine innocence, And bid each awful Muse drive the damned harpies hence.
CAMBRIDGE, 1827.
Be of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly Serve that low whisper thou hast served; for know, God hath a select family of sons Now scattered wide thro' earth, and each alone, Who are thy spiritual kindred, and each one By constant service to, that inward law, Is weaving the sublime proportions Of a true monarch's soul. Beauty and strength, The riches of a spotless memory, The eloquence of truth, the wisdom got By searching of a clear and loving eye That seeth as God seeth. These are their gifts, And Time, who keeps God's word, brings on the day To seal the marriage of these minds with thine, Thine everlasting lovers. Ye shall be The salt of all the elements, world of the world.
TO-DAY
I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide The resurrection of departed pride. Safe in their ancient crannies, dark and deep, Let kings and conquerors, saints and soldiers sleep-- Late in the world,--too late perchance for fame, Just late enough to reap abundant blame,-- I choose a novel theme, a bold abuse Of critic charters, an unlaurelled Muse.
Old mouldy men and books and names and lands Disgust my reason and defile my hands. I had as lief respect an ancient shoe, As love old things _for age_, and hate the new. I spurn the Past, my mind disdains its nod, Nor kneels in homage to so mean a God. I laugh at those who, while they gape and gaze, The bald antiquity of China praise. Youth is (whatever cynic tubs pretend) The fault that boys and nations soonest mend.
1824.
FAME
Ah Fate, cannot a man Be wise without a beard? East, West, from Beer to Dan, Say, was it never heard That wisdom might in youth be gotten, Or wit be ripe before 't was rotten?
He pays too high a price For knowledge and for fame Who sells his sinews to be wise, His teeth and bones to buy a name, And crawls through life a paralytic To earn the praise of bard and critic.
Were it not better done, To dine and sleep through forty years; Be loved by few; be feared by none; Laugh life away; have wine for tears; And take the mortal leap undaunted, Content that all we asked was granted?
But Fate will not permit The seed of gods to die, Nor suffer sense to win from wit Its guerdon in the sky, Nor let us hide, whate'er our pleasure, The world's light underneath a measure.
Go then, sad youth, and shine; Go, sacrifice to Fame; Put youth, joy, health upon the shrine, And life to fan the flame; Being for Seeming bravely barter And die to Fame a happy martyr.
1824.
THE SUMMONS
A sterner errand to the silken troop Has quenched the uneasy blush that warmed my cheek; I am commissioned in my day of joy To leave my woods and streams and the sweet sloth Of prayer and song that were my dear delight, To leave the rudeness of my woodland life, Sweet twilight walks and midnight solitude And kind acquaintance with the morning stars And the glad hey-day of my household hours, The innocent mirth which sweetens daily bread, Railing in love to those who rail again, By mind's industry sharpening the love of life-- Books, Muses, Study, fireside, friends and love, I loved ye with true love, so fare ye well!
I was a boy; boyhood slid gayly by And the impatient years that trod on it Taught me new lessons in the lore of life. I've learned the sum of that sad history All woman-born do know, that hoped-for days, Days that come dancing on fraught with delights, Dash our blown hopes as they limp heavily by. But I, the bantling of a country Muse, Abandon all those toys with speed to obey The King whose meek ambassador I go.
1826.
THE RIVER
And I behold once more My old familiar haunts; here the blue river, The same blue wonder that my infant eye Admired, sage doubting whence the traveller came,-- Whence brought his sunny bubbles ere he washed The fragrant flag-roots in my father's fields, And where thereafter in the world he went. Look, here he is, unaltered, save that now He hath broke his banks and flooded all the vales With his redundant waves. Here is the rock where, yet a simple child, I caught with bended pin my earliest fish, Much triumphing,--and these the fields Over whose flowers I chased the butterfly A blooming hunter of a fairy fine. And hark! where overhead the ancient crows Hold their sour conversation in the sky:-- These are the same, but I am not the same, But wiser than I was, and wise enough Not to regret the changes, tho' they cost Me many a sigh. Oh, call not Nature dumb; These trees and stones are audible to me, These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind, I understand their faery syllables, And all their sad significance. The wind, That rustles down the well-known forest road-- It hath a sound more eloquent than speech. The stream, the trees, the grass, the sighing wind, All of them utter sounds of 'monishment And grave parental love. They are not of our race, they seem to say, And yet have knowledge of our moral race, And somewhat of majestic sympathy, Something of pity for the puny clay, That holds and boasts the immeasurable mind. I feel as I were welcome to these trees After long months of weary wandering, Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs; They know me as their son, for side by side, They were coeval with my ancestors, Adorned with them my country's primitive times, And soon may give my dust their funeral shade.
CONCORD, June, 1827.
GOOD HOPE
The cup of life is not so shallow That we have drained the best, That all the wine at once we swallow And lees make all the rest.
Maids of as soft a bloom shall marry As Hymen yet hath blessed, And fairer forms are in the quarry Than Phidias released.
1827.
LINES TO ELLEN
Tell me, maiden, dost thou use Thyself thro' Nature to diffuse? All the angles of the coast Were tenanted by thy sweet ghost, Bore thy colors every flower, Thine each leaf and berry bore; All wore thy badges and thy favors In their scent or in their savors, Every moth with painted wing, Every bird in carolling, The wood-boughs with thy manners waved, The rocks uphold thy name engraved, The sod throbbed friendly to my feet, And the sweet air with thee was sweet. The saffron cloud that floated warm Studied thy motion, took thy form, And in his airy road benign Recalled thy skill in bold design, Or seemed to use his privilege To gaze o'er the horizon's edge, To search where now thy beauty glowed, Or made what other purlieus proud.
1829.
SECURITY
Though her eye seek other forms And a glad delight below, Yet the love the world that warms Bids for me her bosom glow.
She must love me till she find Another heart as large and true. Her soul is frank as the ocean wind, And the world has only two.
If Nature hold another heart That knows a purer flame than me, I too therein could challenge part And learn of love a new degree.
1829.
A dull uncertain brain, But gifted yet to know That God has cherubim who go Singing an immortal strain, Immortal here below. I know the mighty bards, I listen when they sing, And now I know The secret store Which these explore When they with torch of genius pierce The tenfold clouds that cover The riches of the universe From God's adoring lover. And if to me it is not given To fetch one ingot thence Of the unfading gold of Heaven His merchants may dispense, Yet well I know the royal mine, And know the sparkle of its ore, Know Heaven's truth from lies that shine-- Explored they teach us to explore.
1831.
A MOUNTAIN GRAVE
Why fear to die And let thy body lie Under the flowers of June, Thy body food For the ground-worms' brood And thy grave smiled on by the visiting moon.
Amid great Nature's halls Girt in by mountain walls And washed with waterfalls It would please me to die, Where every wind that swept my tomb Goes loaded with a free perfume Dealt out with a God's charity.
I should like to die in sweets, A hill's leaves for winding-sheets, And the searching sun to see That I am laid with decency. And the commissioned wind to sing His mighty psalm from fall to spring And annual tunes commemorate Of Nature's child the common fate.
WILLIAMSTOWN, VERMONT, 1 June, 1831.
A LETTER
Dear brother, would you know the life, Please God, that I would lead? On the first wheels that quit this weary town Over yon western bridges I would ride And with a cheerful benison forsake Each street and spire and roof, incontinent. Then would I seek where God might guide my steps, Deep in a woodland tract, a sunny farm, Amid the mountain counties, Hants, Franklin, Berks, Where down the rock ravine a river roars, Even from a brook, and where old woods Not tamed and cleared cumber the ground With their centennial wrecks. Find me a slope where I can feel the sun And mark the rising of the early stars. There will I bring my books,--my household gods, The reliquaries of my dead saint, and dwell In the sweet odor of her memory. Then in the uncouth solitude unlock My stock of art, plant dials in the grass, Hang in the air a bright thermometer And aim a telescope at the inviolate sun.
CHARDON ST., BOSTON, 1831.
Day by day returns The everlasting sun, Replenishing material urns With God's unspared donation; But the day of day, The orb within the mind, Creating fair and good alway, Shines not as once it shined.
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Vast the realm of Being is, In the waste one nook is his; Whatsoever hap befalls In his vision's narrow walls He is here to testify.
1831.
HYMN
There is in all the sons of men A love that in the spirit dwells, That panteth after things unseen, And tidings of the future tells.
And God hath built his altar here To keep this fire of faith alive, And sent his priests in holy fear To speak the truth--for truth to strive.
And hither come the pensive train Of rich and poor, of young and old, Of ardent youth untouched by pain, Of thoughtful maids and manhood bold.
They seek a friend to speak the word Already trembling on their tongue, To touch with prophet's hand the chord Which God in human hearts hath strung.
To speak the plain reproof of sin That sounded in the soul before, And bid you let the angels in That knock at meek contrition's door.
A friend to lift the curtain up That hides from man the mortal goal, And with glad thoughts of faith and hope Surprise the exulting soul.
Sole source of light and hope assured, O touch thy servant's lips with power, So shall he speak to us the word Thyself dost give forever more.
June, 1831.
SELF-RELIANCE
Henceforth, please God, forever I forego The yoke of men's opinions. I will be Light-hearted as a bird, and live with God. I find him in the bottom of my heart, I hear continually his voice therein.
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The little needle always knows the North, The little bird remembereth his note, And this wise Seer within me never errs. I never taught it what it teaches me; I only follow, when I act aright.
October 9, 1832.
And when I am entombed in my place, Be it remembered of a single man, He never, though he dearly loved his race, For fear of human eyes swerved from his plan.
Oh what is Heaven but the fellowship Of minds that each can stand against the world By its own meek and incorruptible will?
The days pass over me And I am still the same; The aroma of my life is gone With the flower with which it came.
1833.
WRITTEN IN NAPLES
We are what we are made; each following day Is the Creator of our human mould Not less than was the first; the all-wise God Gilds a few points in every several life, And as each flower upon the fresh hillside, And every colored petal of each flower, Is sketched and dyed, each with a new design, Its spot of purple, and its streak of brown, So each man's life shall have its proper lights, And a few joys, a few peculiar charms, For him round in the melancholy hours And reconcile him to the common days. Not many men see beauty in the fogs Of close low pine-woods in a river town; Yet unto me not morn's magnificence, Nor the red rainbow of a summer eve, Nor Rome, nor joyful Paris, nor the halls Of rich men blazing hospitable light, Nor wit, nor eloquence,--no, nor even the song Of any woman that is now alive,-- Hath such a soul, such divine influence, Such resurrection of the happy past, As is to me when I behold the morn Ope in such law moist roadside, and beneath Peep the blue violets out of the black loam, Pathetic silent poets that sing to me Thine elegy, sweet singer, sainted wife.
March, 1833.
WRITTEN AT ROME
Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too;-- Besides, you need not be alone; the soul Shall have society of its own rank. Be great, be true, and all the Scipios, The Catos, the wise patriots of Rome, Shall flock to you and tarry by your side, And comfort you with their high company. Virtue alone is sweet society, It keeps the key to all heroic hearts, And opens you a welcome in them all. You must be like them if you desire them, Scorn trifles and embrace a better aim Than wine or sleep or praise; Hunt knowledge as the lover wooes a maid, And ever in the strife of your own thoughts Obey the nobler impulse; that is Rome: That shall command a senate to your side; For there is no might in the universe That can contend with love. It reigns forever. Wait then, sad friend, wait in majestic peace The hour of heaven. Generously trust Thy fortune's web to the beneficent hand That until now has put his world in fee To thee. He watches for thee still. His love Broods over thee, and as God lives in heaven, However long thou walkest solitary, The hour of heaven shall come, the man appear.
1833.
WEBSTER
1831
Let Webster's lofty face Ever on thousands shine, A beacon set that Freedom's race Might gather omens from that radiant sign.
FROM THE PHI BETA KAPPA POEM
1834
Ill fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave For living brows; ill fits them to receive: And yet, if virtue abrogate the law, One portrait--fact or fancy--we may draw; A form which Nature cast in the heroic mould Of them who rescued liberty of old; He, when the rising storm of party roared, Brought his great forehead to the council board, There, while hot heads perplexed with fears the state, Calm as the morn the manly patriot sate; Seemed, when at last his clarion accents broke, As if the conscience of the country spoke. Not on its base Monadnoc surer stood, Than he to common sense and common good: No mimic; from his breast his counsel drew, Believed the eloquent was aye the true; He bridged the gulf from th' alway good and wise To that within the vision of small eyes. Self-centred; when he launched the genuine word It shook or captivated all who heard, Ran from his mouth to mountains and the sea, And burned in noble hearts proverb and prophecy.
1854
Why did all manly gifts in Webster fail? He wrote on Nature's grandest brow, _For Sale_.
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES
A dull uncertain brain "A new commandment," said the smiling Muse A patch of meadow upland A queen rejoices in her peers A ruddy drop of manly blood A score of airy miles will smooth A sterner errand to the silken troop A subtle chain of countless rings A train of gay and clouded days Ah Fate, cannot a man Ah, not to me those dreams belong! All day the waves assailed the rock Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too Already blushes on thy cheek And as the light divides the dark And Ellen, when the graybeard years And I behold once more And when I am entombed in my place Announced by all the trumpets of the sky Around the man who seeks a noble end Ascending thorough just degrees Askest, 'How long thou shalt stay?' As sings the pine-tree in the wind As sunbeams stream through liberal space As the drop feeds its fated flower Atom from atom yawns as far
Be of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly Because I was content with these poor fields Bethink, poor heart, what bitter kind of jest Blooms the laurel which belongs Boon Nature yields each day a brag which we now first behold Bring me wine, but wine which never grew Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint Burly, dozing humble-bee But God said But if thou do thy best But Nature whistled with all her winds But never yet the man was found But over all his crowning grace By fate, not option, frugal Nature gave By the rude bridge that arched the flood By thoughts I lead
Can rules or tutors educate Cast the bantling on the rocks Coin the day dawn into lines
Dark flower of Cheshire garden Darlings of children and of bard Daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy Spring Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days Day by day for her darlings to her much she added more Day by day returns Day! hast thou two faces Dear brother, would you know the life Dearest, where thy shadow falls Deep in the man sits fast his fate
Each spot where tulips prank their state Each the herald is who wrote Easy to match what others do Ere he was born, the stars of fate Ever the Poet _from_ the land Ever the Rock of Ages melts Every day brings a ship Every thought is public
Fall, stream, from Heaven to bless; return as well Farewell, ye lofty spires Flow, flow the waves hated For art, for music over-thrilled For every God For Fancy's gift For Genius made his cabin wide For joy and beauty planted it For Nature, true and like in every place For thought, and not praise For what need I of book or priest Forbore the ant-hill, shunned to tread Freedom all winged expands Friends to me are frozen wine From fall to spring, the russet acorn From high to higher forces From the stores of eldest matter From thy worth and weight the stars gravitate
Gifts of one who loved me Give all to love Give me truths Give to barrows, trays and pans Go if thou wilt, ambrosial flower Go speed the stars of Thought Go thou to thy learned task Gold and iron are good Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home Grace, Beauty and Caprice Gravely it broods apart on joy
Hark what, now loud, now low, the pining flute complains Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? Have ye seen the caterpillar He could condense cerulean ether He lives not who can refuse me He planted where the deluge ploughed He took the color of his vest He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare He who has no hands Hear what British Merlin sung Henceforth, please God, forever I forego Her passions the shy violet Her planted eye to-day controls High was her heart, and yet was well inclined Him strong Genius urged to roam His instant thought a poet spoke His tongue was framed to music Hold of the Maker, not the Made How much, preventing God, how much I owe
I, Alphonso, live and learn I am not poor but I am proud I am not wiser for my age I am the Muse who sung alway I bear in youth and sad infirmities I cannot spare water or wine I do not count the hours I spend I framed his tongue to music I grieve that better souls than mine I have an arrow that will find its mark I have no brothers and no peers I have trod this path a hundred times I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea I hung my verses in the wind I left my dreary page and sallied forth I like a church; I like a cowl I love thy music, mellow bell I mourn upon this battle-field I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide I reached the middle of the mount I said to heaven that glowed above I see all human wits I serve you not, if you I follow If bright the sun, he tarries If curses be the wage of love If I could put my woods in song If my darling should depart If the red slayer think he slays Ill fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave Illusions like the tints of pearl Illusion works impenetrable In an age of fops and toys In countless upward-striving waves In Farsistan the violet spreads In many forms we try In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes In my garden three ways meet In the chamber, on the stairs In the deep heart of man a poet dwells In the suburb, in the town In the turbulent beauty In Walden wood the chickadee It fell in the ancient periods It is time to be old
Knows he who tills this lonely field
Let me go where'er I will Let Webster's lofty face Like vaulters in a circus round Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Long I followed happy guides Love asks nought his brother cannot give Love on his errand bound to go Love scatters oil Low and mournful be the strain
Man was made of social earth Many things the garden shows May be true what I had heard Mine and yours Mine are the night and morning Mortal mixed of middle clay
Nature centres into balls Never did sculptor's dream unfold Night-dreams trace on Memory's wall No fate, save by the victim's fault, is low Not in their houses stand the stars
October woods wherein O fair and stately maid, whose eyes O pity that I pause! O tenderly the haughty day O well for the fortunate soul O what are heroes, prophets, men Of all wit's uses the main one Of Merlin wise I learned a song Oh what is Heaven but the fellowship On a mound an Arab lay On bravely through the sunshine and the showers On prince or bride no diamond stone On two days it steads not to run from thy grave Once I wished I might rehearse One musician is sure Our eyeless bark sails free Over his head were the maple buds
Pale genius roves alone Parks and ponds are good by day Philosophers are lined with eyes within Power that by obedience grows Put in, drive home the sightless wedges
Quit the hut, frequent the palace
Right upward on the road of fame Roomy Eternity Roving, roving, as it seems Ruby wine is drunk by knaves
Samson stark at Dagon's knee See yonder leafless trees against the sky Seek not the spirit, if it hide Seems, though the soft sheen all enchants Set not thy foot on graves She is gamesome and good She paints with white and red the moors She walked in flowers around my field Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen Shun passion, fold the hands of thrift Six thankful weeks,--and let it be Slighted Minerva's learnèd tongue Soft and softlier hold me, friends! Solar insect on the wing Some of your hurts you have cured Space is ample, east and west Spin the ball! I reel, I burn Such another peerless queen Sudden gusts came full of meaning