These set he in the midst of them, And as they drew back their garmenthem, For fear of defilement, "Lo, here," said he, "The images ye have made of me !" ODE WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE INTRODUCTION OF THE COCHITUATE WATER INTO THE CITY OF BOSTON. My name is Water: I have sped Through strange, dark ways, untried before, By pure desire of friendship led, I'm Ceres' cup-bearer; I pour, For flowers and fruits and all their kin, Her crystal vintage, from of yore Stored in old Earth's selectest bin, Flora's Falernian ripe, since God The wine-press of the deluge trod. In that far isle whence, iron-willed, The New World's sires their bark unmoored, The fairies' acorn-cups I filled Upon the toadstool's silver board, And, 'neath Herne's oak, for Shakespeare's sight, Strewed moss and grass with diamonds bright. No fairies in the Mayflower came, A sight in Paradise denied When Winter held me in his grip, But I forgive, not long a slave, For countless services I 'm fit, Of use, of pleasure, and of gain, But lightly from all bonds I flit, Nor lose my mirth, nor feel a stain; From mill and wash-tub I escape, And take in heaven my proper shape. So, free myself, to-day, elate I come from far o'er hill and mead, And here, Cochituate's envoy wait To be your blithesome Ganymede, And brim your cups with nectar true That never will make slaves of you. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE GRAVES OF TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD BATTLE-GROUND. THE same good blood that now refills The dotard Orient's shrunken veins, The same whose vigor westward thrills, Bursting Nevada's silver chains, Poured here upon the April grass, Freckled with red the herbage new ; On reeled the battle's trampling mass, Back to the ash the bluebird flew. Poured here in vain;-that sturdy blood Was meant to make the earth more green, But in a higher, gentler mood These men were brave enough, and true To the hired soldier's bull-dog creed: What brought them here they never knew, World-wide from that short April fray? What then? With heart and hand they wrought, According to their village light; Their graves have voices; if they threw Dice charged with fates beyond their ken, Yet to their instincts they were true, When all our good seems pond in sheaves, And we stand reaped and bare. Our seasons have no fixed returns, Without our will they come and go; At noon our sudden summer burns, Ere sunset all is snow. But each day brings less summer cheer, As less the olden glow abides, And less the chillier heart aspires, With drift-wood beached in past springtides We light our sullen fires. By the pinched rushlight's starving beam We cower and strain our wasted sight, To stitch youth's shroud up, seam by seam, In the long arctic night. It was not so we once were youngWhen Spring, to womanly Summer turning, Her dew-drops on each grass-blade strung, In the red sunrise burning. We trusted then, aspired, believed That earth could be remade to-mor row: Ah, why be ever undeceived? Why give up faith for sorrow? O thou, whose days are yet all spring, Faith, blighted once, is past retrieving: Experience is a dumb, dead thing; WE, too, have autumns, when our leaves Drop loosely through the dampened air, FREEDOM. ARE we, then, wholly fallen? Can it be That thou, North wind, that from thy mountains bringest Their spirit to our plains, and thou blue sea, Who on our rocks thy wreaths of free dom flingest, As on an altar, can it be that ye The people's heart is like a harp for years Hung where some petrifying torrent rains Is slow incrusting spray: the stiffened chords Faint and more faint make answer to the tears That drip upon them: idle are all words: Only a silver plectrum wakes the tone Deep buried 'neath that ever-thickening stone. We are not free: Freedom doth not consist In musing with our faces toward the Past, While petty cares, and crawling inter ests, twist Their spider-threads about us, which at Forever yielding, never wholly won: That is not love which pauses in the race Two close-linked names on fleeting sand to trace ; Freedom gained yesterday is no more ours; Men gather but dry seeds of last year's flowers; Still there's a charm ungranted, still a grace, Still rosy Hope, the free,the unattained, Makes us Possession's languid hand let fall; 'T is but a fragment of ourselves is gained, The Future brings us more, but never all. And, as the finder of some unknown realm, Mounting a summit whence he thinks to see On either side of him the imprisoning sea, BOWING thyself in dust before a Book, And thinking the great God is thine alone, O rash iconoclast, thou wilt not brook And he, let come what will of woe, Has saved the land he strove to save; No Cossack hordes, no traitor's blow, Can quench the voice shall haunt his grave. "I Kossuth am: O Future, thou That clear'st the just and blott'st the vile, O'er this small dust in reverence bow, Remembering what I was erewhile. "I was the chosen trump wherethrough Our God sent forth awakening breath; Came chains? Came death? The strain He blew Sounds on, outliving chains and death.' TO LAMARTINE. I DID not praise thee when the crowd, 'Witched with the moment's inspiration, Vexed thy still ether with hosannas loud, |