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Glorious fountain !
Let my heart be
Upward, like thee!
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.
His soul was led by the eternal law;
But, with calm, godlike eyes, he only saw.
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 watched the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him
And whispered 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 Seer!
Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord ! '
The universal sorrow of mankind,
The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind.
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:
With all the loveliness of heaven and earth,
To show God sitting by the humblest hearth.
To teach that action was the truth of thought,
An anchor for the drifting world he wrought.
Of all his brother-gods unto him gave;
And when he died heaped temples on his grave.
Serene throughout the great, deep infinite
To cheer and guide the mariner at night.
But now the Poet is an empty rhymer
Who lies with idle elbow on the grass,
To all men's prides and fancies as they pass.
Chimes with the music of the eternal stars,
And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars.
For he unmakes who doth not all put forth
To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth.
Disperse the mists that hide thy starry lyre,
To thee for wings to soar to her desire.
Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth,
The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth !
Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear
Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere !
This longing was but granted unto thee
That beauty in its highest thou couldst be.
0, thou who moanest tost with sealike longings,
Who dimly hearest voices call on thee,
Of love, and fear, and glorious agony,
And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed,
The old free nature is not chained or dead,
Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent,
And tell the age what all its signs have meant,
Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong,
There still are texts for never-dying song:
Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes,
What made thy great forerunners free and wise:
Above the thunder lifts its silent peak,
That all may drink and find the rest they seek.
A silence of deep awe and wondering ;
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,
Which every age demands to do it right.
He who would be the tongue of this wide land
And strike it with a toil-em browned hand;
Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books,
So that all beauty awes us in his looks;
Who as the clear northwestern wind is free,
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,
One God-built shrine of reverence and love;
Around the centre fixed of Destiny,
The moving globe of being like a sky; Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer
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,
The glory of a nature satisfied.
Heaving and swelling with a melody
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 this many-voiced scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene.
THE FATHERLAND, WHERE is the true man's fatherland ?
Is it where he by chance is born ?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn
Is it alone where freedom is,
Where God is God and man is man?
Doth he not claim a broader span
Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves,
Where'er a human spirit strives
Where'er one man may help another,
Thank God for such a birthright, brother, -
The night is dark, the stinging sleet,
Swept by the bitter gusts of air,
And stiffens on the pavement bare.
Through the white sleet-clouds as they pass,
Drop down and rattle on the glass.
Faces the east-wind's searching flaws,
Her tattered cloak more tightly draws.
Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze ;
Though faint with hunger and disease.
And, piercing through her garments thin,
Makes colder the cold heart within.
Streams outward through an open shutter,