Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods, So wheeled his soul into the air of song High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang:
"The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; And, from a quiver full of such as these, The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, Or hits the white so surely? They are men, The chosen of her quiver; nor for her Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked: Such answer household ends; but she will have Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips All needless stuff, all sapwood, hardens them, From circumstance untoward feathers plucks Crumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will: The hour that passes is her quiver-boy; When she draws bow, 't is not across the wind, Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings, For sun and wind have plighted faith to her: Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold, In the butt's heart her trembling messenger!
"The song is old and simple that I sing: Good were the days of yore, when men were tried By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold; But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men, And the free ocean, still the days are good; Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity And knocks at every door of hut or hall, Until she finds the brave soul that she wants."
He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide Of interrupted wassail roared along; But Leif, the son of Eric, sate apart Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen;
But then with that resolve his heart was bent, Which, like a humming shaft, through many a strife Of day and night across the unventured seas, Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands The first rune in the Saga of the West.
OUT OF DOORS.
"T IS good to be abroad in the sun, His gifts abide when day is done; Each thing in nature from his cup Gathers a several virtue up; The grace within its being's reach Becomes the nutriment of each, And the same life imbibed by all Makes each most individual : Here the twig-bending peaches seek The glow that mantles in their cheek- Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom That hazes round the basking plum, And, from the same impartial light, The grass sucks green, the lily white.
Like these the soul, for sunshine made, Grows wan and gracile in the shade, Her faculties, which God decreed Various as Summer's dædal breed, With one sad color are imbued,
Shut from the sun that tints their blood; The shadow of the poet's roof Deadens the dyes of warp and woof;
Whate'er of ancient song remains Has fresh air flowing in its veins, For Greece and eldest Ind knew well That out of doors, with world-wide swell Arches the student's lawful cell.
Away, unfruitful lore of books, For whose vain idiom we reject The spirit's mother-dialect, Aliens among the birds and brooks, Dull to interpret or believe
What gospels lost the woods retrieve, Or what the eaves-dropping violet Reports from God, who walketh yet His garden in the hush of eve! Away, ye pedants city-bred,
Unwise of heart, too wise of head, Who handcuff Art with thus and so, And in each other's footprints tread, Like those who walk through drifted snow;
Who, from deep study of brick walls. Conjecture of the water-falls,
By six square feet of smoke-stained sky Compute those deeps that overlie The still tarn's heaven-anointed eye, And, in your earthen crucible, With chemic tests essay to spell How nature works in field and dell! Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold? Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold; To beach and rock repeats the sea
The mystic Open Sesame;
Old Greylock's voices not in vain
Comment on Milton's mountain strain, And cunningly the various wind Spenser's locked music can unbind.
IN the twilight deep and silent Comes thy spirit unto mine,
When the moonlight and the starlight
Over cliff and woodland shine,
And the quiver of the river
Seems a thrill of joy benign.
Then I rise and wander slowly To the headland by the sea,
When the evening star throbs setting Through the cloudy cedar tree, And from under, mellow thunder Of the surf comes fitfully.
Then within my soul I feel thee Like a gleam of other years, Visions of my childhood murmur Their old madness in my ears, Till the pleasance of thy presence Cools my heart with blissful tears.
All the wondrous dreams of boyhood - All youth's fiery thirst of praise- All the surer hopes of manhood
Blossoming in sadder days
Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me With a better wreath than bays—
All the longings after freedom The vague love of human kind, Wandering far and near at random Like a winged seed in the wind The dim yearnings and fierce burnings Of an undirected mind.
All of these, oh best beloved, Happiest present dreams and past, In thy love find safe fulfilment, Ripened into truths at last; Faith and beauty, hope and duty To one centre gather fast.
How my nature, like an ocean, At the breath of thine awakes, Leaps its shores in mad exulting And in foamy thunder breaks, Then downsinking, lieth shrinking At the tumult that it makes!
Blazing Hesperus hath sunken Low within the pale-blue west, And with golden splendor crowneth The horizon's piny crest; Thoughtful quiet stills the riot Of wild longing in my breast.
Home I loiter through the moonlight,
Underneath the quivering trees, Which, as if a spirit stirred them,
Sway and bend, till by degrees The far surge's murmur merges In the rustle of the breeze.
IN SADNESS.
THERE is not in this life of ours
One bliss unmixed with fears,
The hope that wakes our deepest powers A face of sadness wears,
And the dew that showers our dearest flowers Is the bitter dew of tears.
Fame waiteth long, and lingereth Through weary nights and morns And evermore the shadow Death With mocking finger scorns That underneath the laurel wreath Should be a wreath of thorns.
The laurel leaves are cool and green, But the thorns are hot and sharp, Lean Hunger grins and stares between The poet and his harp;
Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been, Grim want thrusts in the warp.
And if beyond this darksome clime Some fair star Hope may see, That keeps unjarred the blissful chime Of its golden infancy-
Where the harvest-time of faith sublime
Not always is to be
Yet would the true soul rather choose
Its home where sorrow is,
Than in a sated peace to lose
Its life's supremest bliss
The rainbow hues that bend profuse O'er cloudy spheres like this-
The want, the sorrow and the pain, That are Love's right to cure —
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