THE POET.

IN the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife; He saw the mysteries which circle under

The outward shell and skin of daily life. Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, His soul was led by the eternal law; There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, But with calm, godlike eyes, he only saw. He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried,

Chief mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried Alone were fitting themes of epic verse: He could believe the promise of to-morrow, And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day; He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow

Than the world's seeming loss could take away. To know the heart of all things was his duty,

All things did sing to him to make him wise, And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty,

The soul of all looked grandly from his eyes. He gazed on all within him and without him,

He watch'd the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him

And whisper'd to him, and he prophesied. Than all men he more fearless was and freer, And all his brethren cried with one accord,"Behold the holy man! Behold the Scer!

Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!" He to his heart with large embrace had taken The universal sorrow of mankind, And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. He could interpret well the wondrous voices

Which to the calm and silent spirit come; He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. He in his heart was ever meek and humble,

And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran, As he foresaw how all things false should crumble Before the free, uplifted soul of man: And, when he was made full to overflowing

With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, Out rush'd his song, like molten iron glowing, To show God sitting by the humblest hearth. With calmest courage he was ever ready

To teach that action was the truth of thought, And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady,

The anchor of the drifting world he wrought, So did he make the meanest man partaker Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; All souls did reverence him and name him Maker, And when he died heaped temples on his grave. And still his deathless words of light are swimming Serene throughout the great, deep infinite Of human soul, unwaning and undimming,

To cheer and guide the mariner at night. But now the Poet is an empty rhymer

Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer,

To all men's prides and fancies as they pass. Not his the song, which, in its metre holy,

Chimes with the music of the eternal stars,

Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly,
And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars.
Maker no more.-O, no! unmaker rather,
For he unmakes who doth not all put forth
The power given by our loving Father

To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth.
Awake! great spirit of the ages olden!

Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, And let man's soul be yet again beholden To thee for wings to soar to her desire. O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender,

The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth! O, prophesy no more the Maker's coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear In the dim void, like to the awful humming

Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere! O, prophesy no more, but be the Poet!

This longing was but granted unto thee
That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it,
That beauty in its highest thou couldst be.
O, thou who moanest, tost with sealike longings,
Who dimly hearest voices call on thee,
Whose soul is overfill'd with mighty throngings

Of love, and fear, and glorious agony,
Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews
And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed,
In whom the hero-spirit yet continues,

The old free nature is not chain'd or dead,
Arouse! let thy soul break in music-thunder,
Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent,
Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder,
And tell the age what all its signs have meant.
Where'er thy wilder'd crowd of brethren jostles,
Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong,
There still is need of martyrs and apostles,

There still are texts for never-dying song: From age to age man's still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes, And thou in larger measure dost inherit

What made thy great forerunners free and wise. Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain, That all may drink and find the rest they seck. Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven, A silence of deep awe and wondering; For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, To hear a mortal like an angel sing..

Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking

For one to bring the Maker's name to light, To be the voice of that almighty speaking

Which every age demands to do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ;

He who would be the tongue of this wide land Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well-attended. Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books, Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended, So that all beauty awes us in his looks; Who not with body's waste his soul hath pamper'd, Who as the clear northwestern wind is free,

Who walks with Form's observances unhamper'd,
And follows the One Will obediently;
Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit,
Control a lovely prospect every way;
Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet,

And find a bottom still of worthless clay;
Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working,
Knowing that one sure wind blows on above,
And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking,

One God-built shrine of reverence and love; Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches Around the centre fix'd of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches

The moving globe of being, like a sky; [nearer Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer Than that of all his brethren, low or high; Who to the right can feel himself the truer

For being gently patient with the wrong, Who sees a brother in the evildoer,

And finds in Love the heart's blood of his song;This, this is he for whom the world is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, Too long hath it been patient with the grating

Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art. To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, And once again in every eye shall glisten

The glory of a nature satisfied,

His verse shall have a great, commanding motion,
Heaving and swelling with a melody
Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean,

And all the pure, majestic things that be. Awake, then, thou! we pine for thy great presence To make us feel the soul once more sublime, We are of far too infinite an essence

To rest contented with the lies of Time. Speak out! and, lo! a hush of deepest wonder Shall sink o'er all his many-voiced scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene.

EXTRACT FROM A LEGEND OF BRIT-
TANY.

THEN Swell'd the organ: up through choir and nave
The music trembled with an inward thrill
Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave
Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until
The hush'd air shiver'd with the throb it gave,

Then, poising for a moment, it stood still,
And sank and rose again, to burst in spray
That wander'd into silence far away.
Like to a mighty heart the music seem'd,
That yearns with melodies it cannot speak,
Until, in grand despair of what it dream'd,
In the agony of effort it doth break,
Yet triumphs breaking; on it rush'd and stream'd
And wanton'd in its might, as when a lake,
Long pent among the mountains, bursts its walls
And in one crowding gush leaps forth and falls.

Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air,
As the huge bass kept gathering heavily,
Like thunder when it rouses in its lair,
And with its hoarse growl shakes the low-hung
It grew up like a darkness everywhere, [sky:

Filling the vast cathedral;-suddenly,
From the dense mass a boy's clear treble broke
Like lightning, and the full-toned choir awoke.
Through gorgeous windows shone the sun aslant,
Brimming the church with gold and purple mist,
Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich chant,

Where fifty voices in one strand did twist
Their varicolour'd tones, and left no want

To the delighted soul, which sank abyss'd
In the warm music-cloud, while, far below,
The organ heaved its surges to and fro.
As if a lark should suddenly drop dead

While the blue air yet trembled with its song, So snapped at once that music's golden thread, Struck by a nameless fear that leapt along From heart to heart, and like a shadow spread

With instantaneous shiver through the throng, So that some glanced behind, as half aware A hideous shape of dread were standing there. As, when a crowd of pale men gather round, Watching an eddy in the leaden deep, From which they deem'd the body of one drown'd Will be cast forth, from face to face doth creep An eager dread that holds all tongues fast bound, Until the horror, with a ghastly leap, Starts up, its dead blue arms stretch'd aimlessly, Heaved with the swinging of the careless sea,So in the faces of all these there grew,

As by one impulse, a dark, freezing awe, Which with a fearful fascination drew

All eyes toward the altar; damp and raw The air grew suddenly, and no man knew

Whether perchance his silent neighbour saw The dreadful thing, which all were sure would rise To scare the strained lids wider from their eyes. The incense trembled as it upward sent

Its slow, uncertain thread of wandering blue, As 't were the only living element

In all the church, so deep the stillness grew; It seem'd one might have heard it, as it went, Give out an audible rustle, curling through The midnight silence of that awe-struck air, More hush'd than death, though so much life was there.

THE SYRENS.

THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary,
The sea is restless and uneasy;
Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary,
Wandering thou knowest not whither;-
Our little isle is green and breezy,
Come and rest thee! O come hither!
Come to this peaceful home of ours,
Where evermore

The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore
To be at rest among the flowers;

Full of rest, the green moss lifts,

As the dark waves of the sea Draw in and out of rocky rifts, Calling solemnly to thee With voices deep and hollow,To the shore

Follow! O follow!

To be at rest for evermore!
For evermore!

Look how the gray, old Ocean
From the depth of his heart rejoices,
Heaving with a gentle motion,
When he hears our restful voices;
List how he sings in an undertone,
Chiming with our melody;

And all sweet sounds of earth and air
Melt into one low voice alone,

That murmurs over the weary sea,-
And seems to sing from everywhere.—
"Here mayest thou harbour peacefully,
Here mavest thou rest from the aching oar;
Turn thy curved prow ashore,

And in our green isle rest for evermore!
For evermore!"

And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill,
And, to her heart so calm and deep,
Murmurs over in her sleep,
Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still,
64 Evermore!"

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,
Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be,
Than to be toiling late and soon?
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea;
Or, in the loneliness of day,

To see the still seals only
Solemnly lift their faces gray,
Making it yet more lonely?
Is it not better, than to hear
Only the sliding of the wave
Beneath the plank, and feel so near
A cold and lonely grave,

A restless grave, where thou shalt lie
Even in death unquietly?

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark,
Lean over the side and see

The leaden eye of the side-long shark
Upturned patiently,

Ever waiting there for thee:

Look down and see those shapeless forms,
Which ever keep their dreamless sleep
Far down within the gloomy deep,
And only stir themselves in storms,
Rising like islands from beneath,
And snorting through the angry spray,
As the frail vessel perisheth

In the whirls of their unwieldy play;
Look down! Look down!
Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark,

That waves its arms so lank and brown,
Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark
Into the cold depth of the sea!
Look down! Look down!

Thus, on Life's lonely sca,

Heareth the marinere
Voices sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream;
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew,
The green grass floweth like a stream
Into the ocean's blue:
Listen! O listen!
Here is a gush of many streams,
A song of many birds,

And every wish and longing seems
Lull'd to a number'd flow of words,-
Listen! O listen!

Here ever hum the golden bees
Underneath full-blossom'd trees,

At once with glowing fruit and flowers crown'd;-
The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand,
That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land;
All around, with a slumberons sound,
The singing waves slide up the strand,
And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be,
The waters gurgle longingly,

As if they fain would seek the shore,
To be at rest from the ceaseless roar,
To be at rest for evermore,-
For evermore.

Thus, on Life's gloomy sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,

Ever singing in his ear,

"Here is rest and peace for thee!"

AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR.

He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Press'd round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own.

And, when he read, they forward leaned,
Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears,
His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned
From humble smiles and tears.

Slowly there grew a tender awe,
Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard,
As if in him who read they felt and saw
Some presence of the bard.

It was a sight for sin and wrong
And slavish tyranny to see,

A sight to make our faith more pure and strong
In high humanity.

I thought, these men will carry hence
Promptings their former life above,
And something of a finer reverence
For beauty, truth, and love.

God scatters love on every side,
Freely among his children all,
And always hearts are lying open wide,
Wherein some grains may fall.

There is no wind but soweth seeds
Of a more true and open life,

Which burst, unlook'd-for, into high-soul'd deeds
With wayside beauty rife.

We find within these souls of ours
Some wild germs of a higher birth,
Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers
Whose fragrance fills the earth.

Within the hearts of all men lie
These promises of wider bliss,

Which blossom into hopes that cannot die,
In sunny hours like this.

All that hath been majestical
In life or death, since time began,
Is native in the simple heart of all,
The angel heart of man.

And thus, among the untaught poor,
Great deeds and feelings find a home,
That cast in shadow all the golden lore
Of classic Greece and Rome.

O mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity!

All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win

To one who grasps the whole:

In his broad breast the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue, Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong.

All thought begins in feeling,-wide In the great mass its base is hid,

And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid.

Nor is he far astray who deems

That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by order'd impulse streams From the great heart of God.

God wills, man hopes: in common souls
Hope is but vague and undefined,

Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls

A blessing to his kind.

Never did Poesy appear

So full of heaven to me, as when

I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear To the lives of coarsest men.

It may be glorious to write

Thoughts that shall glad the two or three

High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century;—

But better far it is to speak

One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men;

To write some earnest verse or line,
Which, seeking not the praise of art,

Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine
In the untutor'd heart.

He who doth this, in verse or prose,

May be forgotten in his day,

But surely shall be crown'd at last with those Who live and speak for aye.

THE HERITAGE.

THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labour sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learn'd by being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door,
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O, rich man's son! there is a toil,
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft, white hands,-
This is the best crop from thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-fill'd past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

TO THE FUTURE.

O, LAND of Promise! from what Pisgah's height Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers? Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight,

Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers? Gazing upon the sunset's high-heap'd gold,

Its crags of opal and of crysolite,

Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold
Still brightening abysses,

And blazing precipices,

Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven,
Sometimes a glimpse is given,

Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted blisses.

O, Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf

Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps; Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf And lure out blossoms: to thy bosom leaps, As to a mother's, the o'er-wearied heart, Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart,

The hurrying feet, the curses without numoer, And, circled with the glow Elysian, Of thine exulting vision, Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and slumber.

To thee the Earth lifts up her fetter'd hands

And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, And her old wo-worn face a little while Grows young and noble; unto thee the Oppressor Looks, and is dumb with awe;

The eternal law

Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser, Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding,

And he can see the grim-eyed Doom From out the trembling gloom Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading.

What promises hast thou for Poets' eyes,

Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong! To all their hopes what overjoy'd replies!

What undream'd ecstasies for blissful song! Thy happy plains no war-trumps brawling clangor Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor; The humble glares not on the high with anger;

Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more; In vain strives self the godlike sense to smother; From the soul's deeps

It throbs and leaps;

The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long lost brother.

To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires

Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free; To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires,

And grief and hunger climb about his knee Welcome as children: thou upholdest

The lone Inventor by his demon haunted; The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest, And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abyss, Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss, And stretch its happy arms and leap up disenchanted.

Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving-kindly The guilty thinks it pity; taught by thee Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly Their own souls they were scarring; con

querors see

With horror in their hands the accursed spear
That tore the meek One's side on Calvary,
And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear;
Thou, too, art the Forgiver,

The beauty of man's soul to man revealing;
The arrows from thy quiver

Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for healing.

O, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams,

From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye
bear me?

Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams,
This agony of hopeless contrast spare me!
Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night!
He is a coward who would borrow
A charm against the present sorrow
From the vague Future's promise of delight:
As life's alarums nearer roll,

The ancestral buckler calls,
Self-clanging, from the walls
In the high temple of the soul;
Where are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is,
To feed the soul with patience,
To heal its desolations

With words of unshorn truth, with love that never wearies.