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 sleepLate 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

Ан 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 lifeBooks, 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;