"Hail, bards of mightier grasp! on you Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, XXIX. THANKFULNESS. THERE is no thankfulness more deep than this, Yet still to find, with each sun-circled hour, A higher right to love, unhoped before, A fuller insight, a serener power, That widens down the soul's unfathomed core: To feel that we are blest is thankfulness, And thereby with exulting faith to know That every human heart its kind must bless With love, which, garnered up, rusts into woe, But, freely given, always turns again, And, for our flowers, brings us ripened grain. -- XXX. IN ABSENCE. THESE rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear, When wild March winds upon their errands sing, Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air, Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair, They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks From icy cares, even as thy clear looks Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care : XXXI. WENDELL PHILLIPS. He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide The din of battle and of slaughter rose; He saw God stand upon the weaker side, That sank in seeming loss before its foes; Many there were who made great haste and sold He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold, And feel its solemn pulses sending blood XXXII. THE STREET. THEY pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds, Dim ghosts of men, that hover to and fro, Hugging their bodies round them, like thin shrouds Wherein their souls were buried long ago: They trampled on their youth, and faith, and love, They cast their hope of human-kind away, With Heaven's clear messages they madly strove, And conquered, and their spirits turned to clay : "We, only, truly live, but ye are dead." |