And all his brethren cried with one accord,

"Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!"

He to his heart with large embrace had taken

The universal sorrow of mankind, And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind.

He could interpret well the wondrous voices 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

Where'er there lingers but a shadow of wrong,

There still is need of martyrs and apostles,

There still are texts for never-dying song: From age to age man's still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes,

And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy great forerunners free and wise.

Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain

Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain,

They all may drink and find the rest they seek.

Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven,

A silence of deep awe and wondering; For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, To hear a mortal like an angel sing.

III

Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking

For who shall bring the Maker's name to light,

To be the voice of that almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ;

He who would be the tongue of this wide land

Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron

And strike it with a toil-imbrowned hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well attended,

Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books,

Whose soul with all her countless lives hath

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,

And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, One God-built shrine of reverence and

love;

Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches

Around the centre fixed of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches 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 evil-doer,

And finds in Love the heart's-blood of his

To him the smiling soul of man shall listen,
Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside,
And once again in every eye shall glisten
The glory of a nature satisfied.
His verse shall have a great commanding
motion,

Heaving and swelling with a melody Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean,

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 sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, And, piercing through her garments thin, Beats on her shrunken breast, and there Makes colder the cold heart within.

She lingers where a ruddy glow Streams outward through an open shutter,

Adding more bitterness to woe,

More loneliness to desertion utter.

One half the cold she had not felt
Until she saw this gush of light
Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt
Its slow way through the deadening night.

She hears a woman's voice within,
Singing sweet words her childhood knew,
And years of misery and sin

Furl off, and leave her heaven blue.

Her freezing heart, like one who sinks
Outwearied in the drifting snow,
Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks
No longer of its hopeless woe:

Old fields, and clear blue summer days,

Old meadows, green with grass, and trees That shimmer through the trembling haze And whiten in the western breeze,

Old faces, all the friendly past

Rises within her heart again,
And sunshine from her childhood cast
Makes summer of the icy rain.

Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow,
From man's humanity apart,
She hears old footsteps wandering slow
Through the lone chambers of the heart.

Outside the porch before the door,
Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone,
She lies, no longer foul and poor,
No longer dreary and alone.

Next morning something heavily
Against the opening door did weigh,
And there, from sin and sorrow free,
A woman on the threshold lay.

A smile upon the wan lips told

That she had found a calm release, And that, from out the want and cold,

The song had borne her soul in peace.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

"Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it
Where there 's none that loveth me.
On the rock the billow bursteth
And sinks back into the seas,
But in vain my spirit thirsteth
So to burst and be at ease.
Take, O sea! the tender blossom
That hath lain against my breast;
On thy black and angry bosom

It will find a surer rest.
Life is vain, and love is hollow,

Ugly death stands there behind,
Hate and scorn and hunger follow
Him that toileth for his kind."
Forth into the night he hurled it,

And with bitter smile did mark
How the surly tempest whirled it
Swift into the hungry dark.
Foam and spray drive back to leeward,
And the gale, with dreary moan,
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,
Through the breakers all alone.

II

Stands a maiden, on the morrow,

Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow,

Tracing words upon the sand: "Shall I ever then behold him

Who hath been my life so long, Ever to this sick heart fold him, Be the spirit of his ? song Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters

Mine with love forevermore!" Swells the tide and overflows it,

But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token,

And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken

With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone."

III

In his tower sits the poet,

Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim.