Who loved their city and thought gold well spent
To make her beautiful with piety; I pause, transfigured by some stripe of bloom,
And my mind throngs with shining auguries,
Circle on circle, bright as seraphim, With golden trumpets, silent, that await The signal to blow news of good to men.
Then the revulsion came that always
After these dizzy elations of the mind: And with a passionate pang of doubt I cried,
"O mountain-born, sweet with snow- filtered air
From uncontaminate wells of ether drawn And never-broken secrecies of sky, Freedom, with anguish won, misprized till lost,
They keep thee not who from thy sacred
In fortresses of solitary thought
And private virtue strong in self-restraint.
Must we too forfeit thee misunderstood, Content with names, nor inly wise to know
That best things perish of their own ex
| Tonic, it may be, not delectable, And turned, reluctant, for a parting look At those old weather-pitted images Of bygone struggle, now so sternly calm. About their shoulders sparrows had built nests,
And fluttered, chirping, from gray perch to perch,
Now on a mitre poising, now a crown, Irreverently happy. While I thought How confident they were, what, careless hearts
Flew on those lightsome wings and shared the sun,
A larger shadow crossed; and looking
I saw where, nesting in the hoary towers, The sparrow-hawk slid forth on noise- less air,
With sidelong head that watched the joy below,
Grim Norman baron o'er this clan of Kelts.
Enduring Nature, force conservative, Indifferent to our noisy whims! Men prate
Of all heads to an equal grade cashiered On level with the dullest, and expect (Sick of no worse distemper than them- selves)
A wondrous cure-all in equality; They reason that To-morrow must be wise
Because To-day was not, nor Yesterday, As if good days were shapen of them- selves,
Not of the very lifeblood of men's souls; Meanwhile, long-suffering, imperturb- able,
Thou quietly complet'st thy syllogism, And from the premise sparrow here below
Draw'st sure conclusion of the hawk
If I let fall a word of bitter mirth
When public shames more shameful pardon won, Some have misjudged me, and my service done, If small, yet faithful, deemed of little worth: Through veins that drew their life from Western earth Two hundred years and more my blood hath run In no polluted course from sire to son; And thus was I predestined ere my birth To love the soil wherewith my fibres own Instinctive sympathies; yet love it so As honor would, nor lightly to dethrone Judgment, the stamp of manhood, nor forego The son's right to a mother dearer grown
With growing knowledge and more chaste than snow.
IN CORDIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF HIS EMINENT SERVICE IN HEIGHTENING AND PURIFYING THE TONE
OF OUR POLITICAL THOUGHT,
These Three Poems
ARE DEDICATED.
Readers, it is hoped, will remember that, by his Ode at the Harvard Commemoration, the author had precluded himself from many of the natural outlets of thought and feeling cominon to such occasions as are celebrated in these poems.
READ AT THE ONE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FIGHT AT CONCORD
WHO Cometh over the hills, Her garments with morning sweet, The dance of a thousand rills Making music before her feet? Her presence freshens the air; Sunshine steals light from her face; The leaden footstep of Care Leaps to the tune of her pace, Fairness of all that is fair, Grace at the heart of all grace, Sweetener of hut and of hall, Bringer of life out of naught, Freedom, O, fairest of all
The daughters of Time and Thought!
She cometh, cometh to-day: Hark! hear ye not her tread, Sending a thrill through your clay, Under the sod there, ye dead, Her nurslings and champions? Do ye not hear, as she comes, The bay of the deep-mouthed guns,
The gathering buzz of the drums? The bells that called ye to prayer, How wildly they clamor on her, Crying, "She cometh ! prepare Her to praise and her to honor, That a hundred years go
Scattered here in biood and tears Potent seeds wherefrom should grow Gladness for a hundred years!'
Tell me, young men, have ye seen, Creature of diviner mien
For true hearts to long and cry for, Manly hearts to live and die for? What hath she that others want? Brows that all endearments haunt, Eyes that make it sweet to dare, Smiles that cheer untimely death Looks that fortify despair,
Tones more brave than trumpet's breath; Tell me, maidens, have ye known Household charm more sweetly rare, Grace of woman ampler blown, Modesty more debonair,
Younger heart with wit full grown? O for an hour of my prime, The pulse of my hotter years, That I might praise her in rhyme Would tingle your eyelids to tears, Our sweetness, our strength, and our star,
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