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For his ear, the inward feeling
Needs no outward tongue; He can see the spirit kneeling
While the axe is swung.
Heeding truth alone, and turning
From the false and dim, Lamp of toil or altar burning
Are alike to Him.
On our rugged toil;
Of our woodland spoil !
Bleak and cold, of ours,
Of a clime of flowers;
Of eternal heats;
Tropic fruits and sweets.
Cheerly, on the axe of labor,
Let the sunbeams dance,
Or the gleam of lance!
Freer sun and sky,
Looks, with wondering eye!
Of the age to come;
Bearing harvest home!
Shall the green earth fill;
Crown each beechen hill.
Keep who will the city's alleys,
Take the smooth-shorn plain,
Give to us the cedar valleys,
Rocks and hills of Maine !
Let us still have part;
Hold us to thy heart!
O! our free hearts beat the warmer
For thy breath of snow;
For thy rocks below.
Walketh strong and brave;
No man writeth Slave!
Lo, the day breaks ! old Katahdin's
Pine-trees show its fires,
Rise their blackened spires.
Manhood's rugged play
Through the world our way!
In 1852 appeared The Chapel of the Hermits, and other Poems. The Panorama, and other Poems, constituted the next volume, issued in 1856. As the most significant and beautiful of the miscellaneous poems of the last-named volume, we present, beginning with the eighth stanza,
THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID.
ALONE, the Thebaid hermit leaned
At noontime o'er the sacred word.
Whose voice he heard ?
It broke the desert's hush of awe,
A human utterance, sweet and mild;
A little child.
A child, with wonder-widened eyes,
O’erawed and troubled by the sight Of hot, red sands, and brazen skies,
"What dost thou here, poor man? No shade
Of cool, green doums, nor grass, nor well, Nor corn, nor vines.” The hermit said:
“With God I dwell.
Alone with Him in this great calm,
I live not by the outward sense; My Nile his love, my sheltering palm
The child gazed round him. “Does God livo
Here only ?-where the desert's rim Is green with corn, at morn and eve,
We pray to Him.
“My brother tills beside the Nile
His little field: beneath the leaves My sisters sit and spin the while,
My mother weaves
“And when the millet's ripe heads fall,
And all the bean-field hangs in pod, My mother smiles, and says that all
Are gifts from God. “And when to share our evening meal,
She calls the stranger at the door,
Food to the poor.”
Glistened the flow of human tears;
Thy servant hears.”
And thought of home and life with men And all his pilgrim feet forsook
The palmy shadows cool and long,
The eyes that smiled through lavish locks, Home's cradle-hymn and harvest-song,
And bleat of flocks. "O, child !" he said, “thou teachest me
There is no place where God is not; That love will make, where'er it be,
A holy spot."
He rose from off the desert sand,
And, leaning on his staff of thorn,
Like night with morn.
And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan,
And voice of man.
Unquestioning, his childish guide
He followed as the small hand led To where a woman, gentle-eyed,
Her distaff fed.
She rose, she clasped her truant boy,
She thanked the stranger with her eyes; The hermit gazed in doubt and joy
And dumb surprise.
And, lo! with sudden warmth and light
A tender memory thrilled his frame; New-born, the world-lost anchorite
A man became.
“O, sister of El Zara's race,
Behold me!-had we not one mother goes She gazed into the stranger's face;
“Thou art my brother!”
“O, kin of blood !—Thy life of use
And patient trust is more than mine; And wiser than the gray recluse
This child of thine.
* For, taught of him whom God hath sent,
That toil is praise, and love is prayer,
With thee to share."
Even as his foot the threshold crossed,
The hermit's better life began;
And found a man!
The above volume was followed successively by Ballails, iater Poems, Home Ballads, and Occasional Poems. Of the • Ballads,” the most eventful and poetic is
MARY GARVIN. The evening gun had sounded from gray Fort Mary's walls; Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared and plunged the
And westward on the sea-wind, that damp and gusty grew, Over cedars darkening inland the smokes of Spurwink blew. On the hearth of Farmer Garvin blazed the crackling walnut
log; Right and left sat dame and goodman, and between them
lay the dog, Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and beside him on her
mat, Sitting drowsy in the fire-light, winked and purred the mot
tled cat. “Twenty years !” said Goodman Garvin, speaking sadly, under
breath, And his gray head slowly shaking; as one who speaks of
The Goodwife dropped her needles: “It is twenty years, to
day, Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our child away.”
Then they sank into the silence, for each knew the other's
thought, Of a great and common sorrow, and words were needed not.