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Slowly the western ray forsook

The statue in its shrine;
A sense of tears thrilled all the air

Along the purpling line. Earth seemed a place of graves that rang

To hollow footsteps, while she sang, "Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine!"


Oi.ii neighbor. for how many a year
The same horizon, stretching here,
has held us in its happy bound
From Kivenuouth to Ipswich Sound!
How many a wave-washed day we've

Above that low horizon lean,
And marked within the Merrimack
The self-same sunset reddening back,
Or in the Powow's shining stream,
That silent river of a dream!

Where Craneneek o'er the woody gloom

Lifts her steep mile of apple-bloom: Where Salisbury Sands, in yellow length

With the great breaker measures

Where Artichoke in shadow slides,
The lily on her painted tides —
There's naught in the enchanted view
That does not seem a part of you;
Your legends hang on every hill,
Your songs have made it dearer still.

Yours is the river-road: and yours
Are all the mighty meadow floors
Where the long Hampton levels lie
Alone between the sea and sky.
Fresher in Follymill shall blow
The Mayflowers, that you loved them

Provider Deer Island's ancient pines
Toss to their measure in your lines;
And purplcr gleam old Anpledore,
Because your foot has trod her shore.

Still shall the great Cape wade to meet

The storms that fawn about her feet,


The summer evening linger late
In many-rivered Stackyard Gate,
When we, when all your people here,
Have fled. But like the atmosphere,
You still the region shall surround,
The spirit of the sacred ground,
Though you have risen, as mounts

the star.
Into horizons vaster far!


A Little hand, a fair soft hand
Dimpled and sweet to kiss:

No sculptor ever carved from stone
A fore hand than this.

A hand as idle and as white

As lilies on their stems; Dazzling with rosy finger-tips,

Dazzling with crusted gems.

Another hand, —a tired old hand, Written with many lines;

A faithful, weary hand, whereon The pearl of great price shines!

For folded, as the winged fly

Sleeps in the chrysalis,
IN ithin this little palm I see

That lovelier hand than this!


We're all alone, we're all alone! The moon and stars are dead and gone:

The night's at deep, the wind asleep, And thou and I are all alone!

What care have we though life there be?

Tumult and life are not for me!
Silence and sleep about us creep;
Tumult and life are not for thee!

How late it is, since such as this
Had topped the height of breathing

And now we keep an iron sleep, — In that grave thou, and I in this!


Ah, happy day, refuse to go!
Hang in the heavens forever so!
Forever in mid-afternoon,
Ah, happy day of happy June!
Pour out thy sunshine on the hill,
The piny wood with perfume fill,
And breathe across the singing sea
Land-scented breezes, that shall be
Sweet as the gardens that they pass,
Where children tumble in the grass!

Ah, happy day, refuse to go!
Hang in the heavens forever so!
And long not for thy blushing rest
In the soft bosom of the west,
But bid gray evening get her back
With all the stars upon her track!
Forget the dark, forget the dew,
The mystery of the midnight blue.
And only spread thy wide warm
wings [flings!
While Summer her enchantment

Ah, happy day, refuse to go!
Hang in the heavens forever so!
Forever let thy tender mist
Lie like dissolving amethyst
Deep in the distant dales, and shed
Thy mellow glory overhead!
Yet wilt thou wander,—call the

Aml have the wilds and waters hush
To hear his passion-broken tune,
Ah, happy day of happy June!


Only a tender little thing,
So velvet soft and white it is;

But March himself is not so strong.
With all the great gales that are his.

In vain his whistling storms he calls, In vain the cohorts of his power

Ride down the sky on mighty blasts — He cannot crush the little flower.

Its white spear parts the sod, the


Than that white spear less snowy are,

The rains roll off its crest like spray, It lifts again its spotless star.

Blow, blow, dark March! To meet you here, Thrust upward from the central gloom.

The stellar force of the old earth Pulses to life in this slight bloom.


Oh, glad am I that I was born!
For who is sad when flaming morn
Bursts forth, or when the mighty

Carries the soul from height to height!

To me, as to the child that sings. The bird that claps his rain-washed

wings, I flower,

The breeze that curls the sun-tipped Comes some new joy with each new


Joy in the beauty of the earth,
Joy in the fire upon the hearth,
Joy in that potency of love
In which I live and breathe and move!

Joy even in the shapeless thought
That, some day, when all tasks are

wrought, I shall explore that vasty deep Beyond the frozen gates of sleep.

For joy attunes all beating things, With me each rhythmic atom sings, From glow till gloom, from mirk till morn;

Oh, glad am I that I was born!


What love do I bring you? The earth,

Full of love, were far lighter; The great hollow sky, full of love, Something slighter.

Earth full and heaven full were less

Than the full measure given; Nay, say a heart full, — the house holds earth and heaven!


Ode on A in:

Whe v,f rom the sacred garden driven, Man fied before his Maker's wrath,

An angel left her place in heaven. And crossed the wanderer's sunless path,

'Twas Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke

Where her light foot flew o'er the ground,

And thus, with seraph voice she spoke —

"The Curse a blessing shall be found."

She led him through the trackless wild,

Where noontide sunbeam never blazed;

The thistle shrunk, the" harvest smiled;

And Nature gladdened as she gazed. Earth's thousand tribes of living things.

At Art's command, to him are given;

The village grows, the city springs, And point their spires of faith to heaven.

He rends the oak — and bids it nde, To guard the shores its beauty graced:

He smites the rock — upheaved in pride.

See towers of strength, and domes of taste.

Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal.

Fire bears his banner on the wave, He bids t he mortal poison heal. And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.

He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,

Admiring Beauty's lap to fill; He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep.

And mocks his own Creator's skill.


With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,

He bills the ore illume the page, And, proudly scorning Time's control.

Commerces with an unborn age.

In fields of air he writes his name, And treads the chambers of the sky;

He reads the stars, and grasps the flame

That quivers round the Throne on high,

In war renowned, in peace sublime, He moves in greatness and in grace;

His power, subduing space and time, Links realm to realm and race to race.


Gay, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of

heaven? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here. Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep.

Penance is not for you. Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you, 'tis given To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays;

Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing, Far, far above, over lakes and lands,

And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or, if ye stay,
To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,
And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd.
On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'Twere Heaven indeed Through fields of trackless light to soar,

On Nature's charms to feed, And Nature's own great God adore.


We are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is filled—we're all at

To-night let no cold stranger come;
It is not often thus around
Our old familiar hearth we're found.
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot;
For once be every care forgot;
Let gentle Peace assert her power,
And kind Affection rule the hour;
We're all — all here.

We're not all here!
Some are away — the dead ones dear,
Who thronged with us this ancient

And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand.
Looked in and thinned our little band;
Some like a night-flash passed away.
And some one, lingering, day by day;
The quiet graveyard — some lie
there —

And cruel Ocean has his share —
We're not all here.

We are all here! Even they — the dead — though dead, so dear.

Fond Memory, to her duty true, Brings back their faded forms to view.

How life-like, through the mist of years,

Each well-remembered face appears! We see them as in times long past; From each to each kind looks are


We hear their words, their smiles behold,

They're round us as they were of old — We are all here.

We are all here!

Father, mother,

Sister, brother, You that I love with love so dear. This may not long of us be said; Soon must we join the gathered dead; And by the hearth we now sit round Some other circle will be found. Oh, then, that wisdom may we know, Which yields a life of peace below! So, in the world to follow this, May each repeat, in words of bliss,

We're all — all here!


Yes, social friend, I love thee well,

In learned doctors' spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,

And lap me in delight.

By thee, they cry, with phizzes long, My years are sooner passed;

Well, take my answer, right or wrong, They're sweeter while they last.

And oft, mild friend, to me thou art,

A monitor, though still; Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart

Beyond the preacher's skill.

Thou'rt like the man of worth, who


To goodness every day,
The odor of whose virtue lives
When he has passed away.

When, in the lonely evening hour,

Attended but by thee,
O'er history's varied page I pore,

Man's fate in thine I see.

Oft as thy snowy column s,
Then breaks and falls away,

I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
Thus tumbled to decay.

Awhile like thee the hero burns,
And smokes and fumes around,

And then, like thee, to ashes turns.
And mingles with the ground.

Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled,
And time's the wasting breath,

That late or early, we behold,
Gives all to dusty death.

From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe.

One common doom is passed; Sweet Nature's works, the swelling globe,

Must all burn out at last.

And what is he who smokes thee now ?—

A little moving heap. That soon like thee to fate must bow,

With thee in dust must sleep.

But t hough thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;

Thus, when my body must lie low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.

FROM The .ode o.v Suakesi'eare.

Who now shall grace the glowing throne, Where, all unrivalled, all alone, Bold Shakespeare sat, and looked

creation through, The minstrel monarch of the worlds he drew?

That throne is cold — that lyre in death unstrung

On whose proud note delighted Wonder hung.

Yet old oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps,

One spot shall spare—the grave where

Shakespeare sleeps. Rulers and ruled in common gloom

may lie.

But Nature's laureate bards shall never die.

Art's chiselled boast and Glory's tro

phied shore Must live in numbers, or can live no


While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may claim, [fame; Still rolls the Olympic car in Pindar's Troy's doubtful walls in ashes passed away,

Yet frown on Greece in Homer's deathless lay;

Rome, slowly sinking in her crumbling fanes,

Stands all immortal in her Maro's strains;

So, too, yon giant empress of the isles, On whose broad sway the sun forever smiles,

To Time's unsparing rage one day

must bend, And all her triumphs in her Shakespeare end!

O thou to whose creative power
We dedicate the festal hour,

While Grace and Goodness round the altar stand,

Learning's anointed train, and Beauty's rose-lipped band —

Realms yet unborn, in accents now unknown,

Thy song shall learn, and bless it for their own. [roves,

Deep in the West as Independence

His banners planting round the land he loves.

Where Nature sleeps in Eden's infant grace,

In Time's full hour shall spring a glorious race.

Thy name, thy verse, thy language, shall they bear.

And deck for thee the vaulted temple there.

Our Roman-hearted fathers broke Thy parent empire's galling yoke; But thou, harmonious master of the mind,

Around their sons a gentler chain

shall bind; Once more in thee shall Albion's

sceptre wave, And what her monarch lost, her

monarch-bard shall save.

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