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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
AND when I am entombèd 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.
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 low 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.
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,
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