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He said he'd woo the gentle breeze,
A bright tear in her eye;

But she was false or hard to please,
Or he has told a lie.
Overboard! overboard!
Down in the sea

He may find a truer mind
Where the mermaids be.

He sang us many a merry song
While the breeze was kind:
But he has been lamenting long
The falseness of the wind.

Overboard! overboard!

Under the wave

Let him sing where smooth shells ring
In the ocean's cave!

He may struggle; he may weep;
We'll be stern and cold;

His grief will find, within the deep,

More tears than can be told.

He has gone overboard!

We will float on;

We shall find a truer wind

Now that he is gone.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU.

Born at Boston, Mass: 1817-died 1862.

INSPIRATION.

IF with light head erect I sing,

Though all the Muses lend their force,

From my poor love of any thing,

The verse is weak and shallow as its source.

But if with bended neck I

grope,

Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,

More anxious to keep back than forward it;

Making my soul accomplice there

Unto the flame my heart hath lit,
Then will the verse for ever wear,—

Time cannot bend the line which God has writ.

I hearing get, who had but ears,

And sight, who had but eyes before;

I moments live, who lived but years,

And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.

Now chiefly is my natal hour,

And only now my prime of life:

Of manhood's strength it is the flower,

'Tis peace's end, and war's beginning strife.

It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a gray wall, or some chance place,
Unseasoning time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.

I will not doubt the love untold

Which not my worth nor want hath bought,
Which woo'd me young, and woo'd me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.

UPON THE BEACH.

My life is like a stroll upon the beach,
As near the ocean's edge as I can go;
My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach,
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.

My sole employment 'tis and scrupulous care
To set my gains beyond the reach of tides,-
Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,
Which ocean kindly to my hand confides.

the sea;

I have but few companions on the shore,-
They scorn the strand who sail upon
Yet oft I think the ocean they've sail'd o'er
Is deeper known upon the strand to me.

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,

Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view; Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,

And I converse with many a shipwreck'd crew.

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.*

Born at Boston, Mass: 1818—

THE FLIGHT OF THE WILD GEESE.

RAMBLING along the marshes,
On the bank of the Assabett,
Sounding myself as to how it went,
Praying that I might not forget,
And all uncertain

Whether I was in the right,

Toiling to lift Time's curtain,

And if I burnt the strongest light,—
Suddenly,

High in the air,

I heard the travel'd geese

Their overture prepare.

Stirr'd above the patcht ball,

The wild geese flew,

Nor near so wild as that doth me befall,

Or, swollen Wisdom! you.

In the front there fetch'd a leader,

Him behind the line spread out,

And waved about,

As it was near night,

When these air-pilots stop their flight.

Cruising off the shoal dominion
Where we sit;

Depending not on their opinion,

Nor hiving sops of wit;

*See Note 19.

Geographical in tact,

Naming not a pond or river;
Pull'd with twilight down, in fact,
In the reeds to quack and quiver ;-
There they go,

Spectators at the play below,
Southward in a row.

Cannot laud and map the stars
The indifferent geese;

Nor taste the sweetmeats in odd jars ;

Nor speculate and freeze

e;

Rancid weasands need be well,

Feathers glossy, quills in order;

Starts this train, yet rings no bell,—
Steam is raised without recorder.

66

"Up, my feather'd fowl! all!"

Saith the goose commander;

66

Brighten your bills, and flirt your pinions,
My toes are nipp'd-let us render
Ourselves in soft Guatemala,

Or suck puddles in Campeachy;
Spitzbergen-cake cuts very frosty,
And the tipple is not leechy!

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Mute the listening nations stand

On that dark receding land;

How faint their villages and towns,
Scatter'd on the misty downs!

A meeting-house

Appears no bigger than a mouse!

How long?

Never is a question ask'd,

While a throat can lift the song,
Or a flapping wing be task'd.

All the grandmothers about
Hear the orators of heaven;
Then put on their woollens stout,
And cower o'er the hearth at even;
And the children stare at the sky,

And laugh to see the long black line so high!

Thence once more I heard them say,—

""Tis a smooth, delightful road;

Difficult to lose the way,

And a trifle for a load."

'Twas our forte to pass, for this

Proper sack of sense to borrow

Wings and legs, and bills that clatter,
And the horizon of To-morrow.

TO MY COMPANIONS.

YE heavy-hearted mariners

Who sail this shore !
Ye patient, ye who labour

Sitting at the sweeping oar,

And see afar the flashing sea-gulls play

On the free waters, and the glad bright day

Twine with his hand the spray!

From out your dreariness,

From your heart weariness,

I speak, for I am yours
On these gray shores.

Nay, nay, I know not, mariners!

What cliffs they are,

That high uplift their smooth dark fronts,

And sadly round us bar;

M

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