Who is it will not dare himself to trust?

Who is it hath not strength to

stand alone?

Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward MUST?

He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown.

Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here!

See one straightforward conscience put in pawn

To win a world; see the obedient sphere

By bravery's simple gravitation drawn!

Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old,

And by the Present's lips repeated still,

In our own single manhood to be bold,

Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will?

We stride the river daily at its spring,

Nor, in our childlish thoughtlessness, foresee,

What myraid vassal streams shall tribute bring,

How like an equal it shall greet the sea.

Oh small beginnings, ye are great and strong,

Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain!

Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong,

Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in vain.

Long sleeps the darkling seed below,

The seasons come, and change, and go,

And all the fields are deep with grain.

Although our brother lie asleep, Man's heart still struggles, still aspires;

His grave shall quiver yet, while deep Through the brave Bay State's pulses leap

Her ancient energies and fires.

When hours like this the senses' gush

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING.

I Do not come to weep above thy pall,

And mourn the dying-out of noble powers;

The poet's clearer eye should see, in all

Earth's seeming woe, the seed of
Heaven's flowers.

Truth needs no champions: in the infinite deep

Of everlasting Soul her strength abides,

From Nature's heart her mighty pulses leap,

Through Nature's veins her strength, undying, tides.

Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness,

Where force were vain, makes conquest o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to bless,

When they who loved are hidden in the grave.

The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields,

And Glory's epitaph is writ in blood;

But Alexander now to Plato yields, Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood.

TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. ANOTHER Star 'neath Time's horizon dropped,

To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas;

Another heart

that beat for freedom stopped,What mournful words are these!

O Love Divine, that claspest our tired earth,

And lullest it upon thy heart, Thou knowest how much a gentle soul is worth

To teach men what thou art!

His was a spirit that to all thy poor Was kind as slumber after pain: Why ope so soon thy heaven-deep Quiet's door

And call him home again?

Freedom needs all her poets it is they

Who give her aspirations wings, And to the wiser law of music sway Her wild imaginings.

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST.

OVER his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away,

First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:

Then, as the touch of his loved in

strument

Gives hope and fervour, nearer draws his theme,

First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent

Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendours lie;

Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,

We Sinais climb and know it not.

Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives

The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives;

Its arms outstretched, the druid wood

Waits with its benedicite ; And to our age's drowsy blood

Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ;

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,

The priest has his fee who comes and shrives us,

We bargain for the graves we lie in ;

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays:

Whether we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace;