Sacred to me those fibres fine That first clasped earth. O, ne'er be mine

The alien sun and alien rain!

These nourish not like homelier glows
Or waterings of familiar skies,
And nature fairer blooms bestows
On the heaped hush of wintry snows,
In pastures dear to childhood's eyes,

Than where Italian earth receives
The partial sunshine's ampler boons,
Where vines carve friezes 'neath the
eaves,

And, in dark firmaments of leaves,
The orange lifts its golden moons.

THE NOMADES.

WHAT Nature makes in any mood
To me is warranted for good,
Though long before I learned to see
She did not set us moral theses,
And scorned to have her sweet caprices
Strait-waistcoated in you or me.

I, who take root and firmly cling,
Thought fixedness the only thing;
Why Nature made the butterflies,
(Those dreams of wings that float and
hover

At noon the slumberous poppies over,)
Was something hidden from mine eyes,

Till once, upon a rock's brown bosom,
Bright as a thorny cactus-blossom,
I saw a butterfly at rest;

Then first of both I felt the beauty;
The airy whim, the grim-set duty,
Each from the other took its best.

Clearer it grew than winter sky
That Nature still had reasons why;
And, shifting sudden as a breeze,
My fancy found no satisfaction,
No antithetic sweet attraction,
So great as in the Nomades.
Scythians, with Nature not at strife,
Light Arabs of our complex life,

Gasping under titanic ferns;
Ribs of rock that seaward jut,

Granite shoulders and boulders and

snags,

Round which, though the winds in heaven be shut,

The nightmared ocean murmurs and yearns,

Welters, and swashes, and tosses, and turns,

And the dreary black sea-weed lolls and wags;

Only rock from shore to shore, Only a moan through the bleak clefts blown,

With sobs in the rifts where the coarse kelp shifts,

Falling and lifting, tossing and drifting,
And under all a deep, dull roar,
Dying and swelling, forevermore,
Rock and moan and roar alone,
And the dread of some nameless thing
unknown,

These make Appledore.

These make Appledore by night: Then there are monsters left and right; Every rock is a different monster;

All you have read of, fancied, dreamed, When you waked at night because you screamed,

There they lie for half a mile,
Jumbled together in a pile,
And (though you know they never once
stir),

If you look long, they seem to be moving

Just as plainly as plain can be, Crushing and crowding, wading and shoving

Out into the awful sea,

Where you can hear them snort and

Two rocky bulges, one at each end, With a smaller bulge and a hollow be

tween;

Patches of whortleberry and bay;
Accidents of open green,

Sprinkled with loose slabs square and gray,

Like graveyards for ages deserted; a few

Unsocial thistles; an elder or two, Foamed over with blossoms white as spray;

And on the whole island never a tree Save a score of sumachs, high as your knee,

That crouch in hollows where they may, (The cellars where once stood a village, men say,)

Huddling for warmth, and never grew
Tall enough for a peep at the sea;
A general dazzle of open blue;

A breeze always blowing and playing

Whose far-down pines are wont to tear
Locks of wool from the topmost cloud.
Only be sure you go alone,

For Grandeur is inaccessibly proud,
And never yet has backward thrown
Her veil to feed the stare of a crowd;
To more than one was never shown
That awful front, nor is it fit
Thatshe, Cothurnus-shod, stand bowed
Until the self-approving pit
Enjoy the gust of its own wit
In babbling plaudits cheaply loud;
She hides her mountains and her sea
From the harriers of scenery,

Who hunt down sunsets, and huddle and bay,

Mouthing and mumbling the dying day.

Trust me, 't is something to be cast
Face to face with one's Self at last,
To be taken out of the fuss and strife,
The endless clatter of plate and knife,
The bore of books and the bores of the
street,

From the singular mess we agree to call
Life,

Where that is best which the most fools vote is,

And to be set down on one's own two feet

So nigh to the great warm heart of God,

You almost seem to feel it beat Down from the sunshine and up from the sod;

To be compelled, as it were, to notice All the beautiful changes and chances Through which the landscape flits and glances,

And to see how the face of common day

Is written all over with tender histories, When you study it that intenser way In which a lover looks at his mistress.

Till now you dreamed not what could be done

With a bit of rock and a ray of sun;
But look, how fade the lights and shades
Of keen bare edge and crevice deep!
How doubtfully it fades and fades,
And glows again, yon craggy steep,
O'er which, through color's dreamiest
grades,

The yellow sunbeams pause and creep! Now pink it blooms, now glimmers

gray,

Now shadows to a filmy blue,

Tries one, tries all, and will not stay,
But flits from opal hue to hue,

And runs through every tenderest range
Of change that seems not to be change,
So rare the sweep, so nice the art,
That lays no stress on any part,
But shifts and lingers and persuades;
So soft that sun-brush in the west,
That asks no costlier pigments' aids,
But mingling knobs, flaws, angles,
dints,

Indifferent of worst or best,

Enchants the cliffs with wraiths and hints

And gracious preludings of tints,
Where all seems fixed, yet all evades,
And indefinably pervades
Perpetual movement with perpetual
rest!

III.

Away northeast is Boone Island light;
You might mistake it for a ship,
Only it stands too plumb upright,
And like the others does not slip
Behind the sea's unsteady brink;
Though, if a cloud-shade chance to dip
Upon it a moment, 't will suddenly sink,
Levelled and lost in the darkened main,
Till the sun builds it suddenly up again,
As if with a rub of Aladdin's lamp.
On the main-land you see a misty camp
Of mountains pitched tumultuously:
That one looming so long and large
Is Saddleback, and that point you see
Over yon low and rounded marge,
Like the boss of a sleeping giant's targe
Laid over his breast, is Ossipee;
That shadow there may be Kearsarge;
That must be Great Haystack; I love
these names,

Wherewith the lonely farmer tames
Nature to mute companionship
With his own mind's domestic mood,
And strives the surly world to clip
In the arms of familiar habitude.
'Tis well he could not contrive to make
A Saxon of Agamenticus:

He glowers there to the north of us,
Wrapt in his blanket of blue haze,

Unconvertibly savage, and scorns to take

The white man's baptism or his ways. Him first on shore the coaster divines Through the early gray, and sees him shake

The morning mist from his scalp-lock of pines;

Him first the skipper makes out in the

west,

Ere the earliest sunstreak shoots trem-
ulous,
Plashing with orange the palpitant lines
Of mutable billow, crest after crest,
And murmurs Agamenticus!

As if it were the name of a saint.
But is that a mountain playing cloud,
Or a cloud playing mountain, just there,
so faint?

Look along over the low right shoulder
Of Agamenticus into that crowd
Of brassy thunderheads behind it ;
Now you have caught it, but, ere you
are older

By half an hour, you will lose it and find it

A score of times; while you look 't is gone,

And, just as you 've given it up, anon
It is there again, till your weary eyes
Fancy they see it waver and rise,
With its brother clouds; it is Agio-
chook,

There if you seek not, and gone if you look,

Ninety miles off as the eagle flies.

But mountains make not all the shore The main-land shows to Appledore ; Eight miles the heaving water spreads To a long low coast with beaches and heads

That run through unimagined mazes, As the lights and shades and magical hazes

Put them away or bring them near, Shimmering, sketched out for thirty miles

Between two capes that waver like threads,

And sink in the ocean, and reappear, Crumbled and melted to little isles, With filmy trees, that seem the mere Half-fancies of drowsy atmosphere;