And thou shalt love it only as the nest Whence glory-winged things to Heaven have flown:

To the great Soul alone are all things known;

Present and future are to her as past, While she in glorious madness doth forecast

That perfect bud, which seems a flower full-blown

To each new Prophet, and yet always opes

Fuller and fuller with each day and hour, Heartening the soul with odor of fresh hopes,

And longings high, and gushings of wide power,

Yet never is or shall be fully blown Save in the forethought of the Eternal One.

Subject alone to Order's higher law. What cares the Russian serf or Southern slave

Though we should speak as man spake never yet

Of gleaming Hudson's broad magnifi

cence,

Or green Niagara's never-ending roar? Our country hath a gospel of her own To preach and practise before all the world,

The freedom and divinity of man, The glorious claims of human brotherhood,

Which to pay nobly, as a freeman should,

Gains the sole wealth that will not fly

away,

And the soul's fealty to none but God. These are realities, which make the shows

Of outward Nature, be they ne'er so grand,

Seem small, and worthless, and contemptible.

These are the mountain-summits for our bards,

Which stretch far upward into heaven itself,

And give such wide-spread and exulting view

Of hope, and faith, and onward destiny,

That shrunk Parnassus to a molehill dwindles.

Our new Atlantis, like a morning-star, Silvers the murk face of slow-yielding Night,

The herald of a fuller truth than yet Hath gleamed upon the upraised face of Man

Since the earth glittered in her stain

less prime,

Of a more glorious sunrise than of old Drew wondrous melodies from Memnon huge,

Yea, draws them still, though now he sits waist-deep

In the ingulfing flood of whirling sand, And looks across the wastes of endless

Shall the dull stone pay grateful ori

sons,

And we till noonday bar the splendor

out,

Lest it reproach and chide our sluggard hearts,

Warm-nestled in the down of Prejudice,

And be content, though clad with angel-wings,

Close-clipped, to hop about from perch to perch,

In paltry cages of dead men's dead thoughts?

O, rather, like the skylark, soar and sing,

And let our gushing songs befit the dawu

And sunrise, and the yet unshaken dew Brimming the chalice of each full-blown hope,

Whose blithe front turns to greet the growing day!

Never had poets such high call before, Never can poets hope for higher one, And, if they be but faithful to their trust, Earth will remember them with love

Coping with mad waves and more mu tinous spirits,

Battled he with the dreadful ache at heart

Which tempts, with devilish subtleties of doubt,

The hermit of that loneliest solitude, The silent desert of a great New Thought;

Though loud Niagara were to-day struck dumb,

Yet would this cataract of boiling life Rush plunging on and on to endless deeps,

And utter thunder till the world shall cease,

A thunder worthy of the poet's song, And which alone can fill it with true life.

The high evangel to our country granted Could make apostles, yea, with tongues of fire,

Of hearts half-darkened back again to clay!

'Tis the soul only that is national, And he who pays true loyalty to that Alone can claim the wreath of patriotism.

Beloved! if I wander far and oft From that which I believe, and feel, and know,

Thou wilt forgive, not with a sorrowing heart,

But with a strengthened hope of better things;

Knowing that I, though often blind and false

To those I love, and O, more false than all

Unto myself, have been most true to thee,

And that whoso in one thing hath been