Poems

Front matter

by

Frederick Goddard Tuckerman.

1864.

November

Part I.

Oh! who is there of us that has not felt The sad decadence of the failing year, And marked the lesson still with grief and fear Writ in the rollèd leaf, and widely dealt? When now no longer burns yon woodland belt Bright with disease; no tree in glowing death Leans forth a cheek of flame to fade and melt In the warm current of the west wind's breath;

Nor yet through low blue mist, on slope and plain, Droops the red sunlight in a dream of day; But, from that lull, the winds of change have burst And dashed the drowsy leaf with shattering rain, And swung the groves, and roared, and wreaked their worst, Till all the world is harsh, and cold, and gray.

April

The first of April! yet November's haze Hangs on the wood, and blurs the hill's blue tip: The light of noon rests wanly on the strip Of sandy road; recalling leaf-laid ways, Shades stilled in death, and tender twilight days Ere Winter lifts the wind-trump to his lip. No moss is shyly seen a tuft to raise, Nor under grass a gold-eyed flower to dip; Nor sound is breathed, but haply the south-west Faint rippling in the brushes of the pine, Or of the shrunken leaf, dry-fluttering. Compact the village lies, a whitened line Gathered in smoke. What holds this brooding rest? Is it dead Autumn? or the dreaming Spring?

May Flowers

Where the dwarf pine reddens The rocks and soil with its rusted leaves And skeleton cones; And the footstep deadens, As it clambers o'er roots and broken stones; While a noise of waves the ear deceives As the sigh of the wind through the foliage heaves, And the restless heart saddens With the surging tones; Where falls no change From the best and brightest of spring-tide hours, And the children of Summer their gifts estrange, When dashing with flowers Lowland, and upland, and craggy range:—

There, where Decay and chilled Life stared together Forlornly round; In an April day of wilful weather, The hidden Spring I found.

Ere the Month, in bays and hollows, Strung with leaves the alder spray, Or with bloom, on river-shallows, Dropped the wands of willows gray;

Ere her fingers flung the cowslip Golden through the meadow-glade, Or the bloodroot's caps of silver Flickered where her feet had played;

Whilst above the bluffs were hiding Sullen brows in slouching snows,— Through the leaves my footstep sliding Fell where hers first touched and rose.

Underneath the dead pine-droppings, Breaking white through mildewed mould, Gleamed a rosy chain of flowerets,— Rosy flowerets, fresh and cold:

Swept not, but by shadow swaying Of wild branch in windy air, Couched the buds, unguessed, and laying Star to star, in darkness there.

Eagerly, yet half reluctant, As the daylight lit on them, Of its clinging tufts of odour Quick I stript the trailing stem;

And their lights in cluster blending,— Barren sounds and damp decays Sank, in sighs of Summer ending And a smell of balmy days.

So refreshed and fancy-solaced, Through the Shadow on I past; While Life seemed to beat and kindle In the breath my darlings cast.

As I parted from the pine-trees, Gathering in, as round a grave Mourners close;—above their branches, From a glimmering western cave,

Sunlight broke into the valley; Filling with an instant glow All its basin, from the brook-bed To the dark odge touched with snow:

And, by luring sweet, and lustre, Summoned from his rock or tree, Heavily, round leaf and cluster, Hurtled the bewildered bee.

So, until I found the village, Welcome brightoned in the air,— Where, from porch and vine-filled window, Beamed a welcome still more fair,—

Girlish heads, half-seen, and glancing, Peepod athrough the leaf-lorn bowers; And the little children, dancing, Clapped their hands, and cried, "Mayflowers!"

Since I found that buried garland, Fair, and fresh, and rosy-cold, All has been its life foreshadowed,— Woods in umbrage banked and rolled,

Meadows brimmed with clover, ridges Where through fern the lupine crowds, And upon the sandstone ledges Laurel heaped like sunset clouds:

But the wayward mind, regretful, Wanders through that April day, And, by fields for ever faded, Seems to tread a vanished way,

Till it finds those low lights flushing Through the pine-trees' mouldered spines, And hears still the mournful gushing Of the north wind in the pines.

Hymn for the Dedication of a Cemetery

Beside the River's dark green flow— Here, where the pine-trees weep, Red Antumn's winds will coldly blow Above their dreamless sleep;

Their sleep, for whom with prayerful breath We've put apart to-day, This spot,—for shadowed walks of Death, And gardens of Decay.

This crumbling bank with Autumn crowned, These pining woodland ways, Seem now no longer common ground; But each in turn conveys

A saddened sense of something more: Is it the dying year? Or a dim shadow, sent before, Of the next gathering here?

Is it that He, the silent Power, Has now assumed the place, And drunk the light of Morning's hour, The life of Nature's graco?

Not so: the spot is beautiful, And holy is the sod; 'Tis we are faint, our eyes are dull; All else is fair in God.

So let them lie, their graves bedecked, Whose bones these shades invest, Nor grief deny, nor fear suspect, The beauty of their rest.

Inspiration

The common paths by which we walk and wind Unheedful, but perhaps to wish them done, Though edged with brier and clotbur, bear behind Such leaves as Milton wears, or Shakspeare won. Still could we look with clear poetic faith, No day so desert but a footway hath, Which still explored, though dimly traced it turn, May yet arrive where gates of glory burn; Nay, scarce an hour, of all the shining twelve, But to the inmost sight may ope a valve On those hid gardens, where the great of old Walked from the world, and their sick hearts consoled Mid bowers that fall not, wells which never waste, And gathered flowers, the fruit whereof we taste:

While, of the silent hours that mourn the day, Not one but bears a poet's crown away; Regardless, or unconscious, how he might Collect an import from the fires of night, Which, when the hand is still, and fixed the head, Shall tremble, starlike, o'er the undying dead;

And, with a tearful glory, Through the darkness shadowing then, Still light the sleeper's story, In the memories of men.

And such are mine; for me these scenes decay,— For me, in hues of change, are ever born: The faded crimson of a wasted day, The gold and purple braveries of the Morn; The life of Spring, the strength that Summer gains, The dying foliage sad September stains; By latter Autumn shattered on the plain, Massed by the wind, blent by the rotting rain; Till belts of snow from cliff to cliff appear, And whitely link the dead and new-born year.

All these, to music deep, for me unfold, Yet vaguely die: their sense I cannot hold,— But shudder darkly as the years drop by And leave me, lifting still a darkened eye. Or if from these despondingly I go To look for light where clear examples glow, Though names constellate glitter overhead, To prompt the path, and guide the failing tread, I linger, watching for a warmer gleam, While still my spirit shivers, and I seem

Like one constrained to wander Alone, till morning light, Beneath the hopeless grandeur Of a star-filled winter's night.

Infatuation

'Tis his one hope all else that round his life So fairly circles, scarce he numbers now. The pride of name, a lot with blessings rife, Determined friends, great gifts that him endow, Are shrunk to nothing in a woman's smile: Counsel, reproof, entreaty, all are lost, Like windy waters which their strength exhaust, And leave no impress; worldly lips revile With sneer and stinging gibe; but idly by, Unfelt, unheard, the impatient arrows fly. Careless, he joins a parasitic train,— Fops, fools, and flatterers, whom her arts enchain, Nor counts aught base that may to her pertain.

Immersed in love, or what he deems is such, The present exigence he looks to please, Nor seeks beyond; but only strives to clutch That which will goad his heart, but ne'er can ease: So the drenched sailor, wrecked in Indian seas, To some low reef of wounding coral clings Mid slav'ry weed, and drift, and ocean scurf; Yet heedeth not companionship of these, But strains his quivering grasp, and stoutly swings, Despite of lifting swell and flinging surf.

Sonnet

Again, again, ye part in stormy grief From these bare hills, and bowers so built in vain, And lips and hearts that will not move again,— Pathetic Autumn, and the writhled leaf; Dropping away in tears with warning brief: The wind reiterates a wailful strain, And on the skylight beats the restless rain, And vapour drowns the mountain, base and brow. I watch the wet black roofs through mist defined, I watch the raindrops strung along the blind, And my heart bleeds, and all my senses bow In grief; as one mild face, with suffering lined, Comes up in thought: oh, wildly, rain and wind, Mourn on! she sleeps, nor heeds your angry sorrow now.

Picomegan

Stars of gold the green sod fretting, Clematis the thicket netting, Silvery moss her locks down-letting Like a maiden brave: Arrowhead his dark flag wetting In thy darker wave.

By the River's broken border Wading through the ferns, When a darker deep, and broader, Fills its bays and turns; Up along the winding ridges, Down the sudden-dropped descent,

Rounding pools with reedy edges, Silent coves in aldors pent,— Through the river-flags and sedges Dreamily I wont.

Dreamily, for perfect Summer Hushed the vales with misty heat; In the wood, a drowsy drummer, The woodpecker, faintly beat; Songs were silent, save the voices Of the mountain and the flood, Save the wisdom of the voices Only known in solitude: But to me, a lonely liver, All that fading afternoon From the undermining river Came a burden in its tune;— Came a tone my car remembers, And I said, "What grief thee grieves, Pacing through thy leafy chambers, And thy voice of rest bereaves?

Winds of change that wail and bluster, Sunless morns, and shivering eves, Carry sweets to thee belonging,— All of light thy rim receives; River-growths that fold and cluster, Following where the waters lead, Bunches of the purple aster, Mints, and blood-dropped jewel-weed, Like carnelians hanging 'Mid their pale-green leaves: Wherefore then, with sunlight heaping Perfect joy and promised good, When thy flow should pulse in keeping With the beating of the blood, Through thy dim green shadows sweeping, When the folded heart is sleeping, Dost thou mourn and brood?"

Wider, wilder, round the headland, Black the River swung, Over skirt and hanging woodland Deeper stillness hung,

As once more I stood a dreamer The waste weeds among. Doubt, and pain, and grief extremer, Seemed to fall away: But a dim voluptuous sorrow Smote and thrilled my fancy thoro', Gazing over bend and bay; Saying, "Thou, O mournful River! As of old dost wind and waste; Falling down the reef for ever, Rustling with a sound of haste Through the dry-fringed meadow-bottom: But my hands, aside thy bed, Gather now no gems of Autumn, Or the dainties Summer shed: By the margin hoarsely flowing, Yellow-dock and garget growing, Drifts of wreck, and muddy stain, By river-wash, and dregs of rain. Yet, though bound in desolation, Bound and locked, thy waters pour, With a cry of exultation

Uncontained by shore and shore; With a booming, deep vibration, In its wind my cheek is wet,— But, unheeding woe or warning, Thou through all the barren hours Seem'st to sing of Summer yet; Thou, with voice all sorrow scorning, Babblest on of leaves and flowers Wearily, whilst I go mourning O'er thy fallen banks and bowers; O'er a life small grace adorning, With lost aims, and broken powers Wreck-flung, like these wave-torn beaches, Tear-trenched, as by winter showers. But a faith thy music teaches, Might I to its knowledge climb, Still the yearning heart beseeches Truth; as when in summer time Through these dells I vaguely sought her, In the dreamy summer time." So the margin paths and reaches Once again I left to roam,

Left behind the roaring water, Eddy-knots, and clots of foam; But it still disturbed me ever, As a dream no reason yields, From the ruin of the river, Winding up through empty fields, That I could not gather something Of the meaning and belief, In the voice of its triúmphing, Or the wisdom of its grief.

The Superlative

How strange a paradox is human life!— Strange in repose, yet stranger in its strife; A walking dream, or fierce and barren toil: A shifting fixture, an enduring change; Tempting, to baffle,—promising, to foil, Strange in the garnered sum, and in the instance strange.

Strange, that a man, whose soul the earthquake-throb Of Genius, like a buried Titan's sob, Has lifted into stillness and sunshine, Should, amid sordid fogs, and earthly jars That beat about his base, again decline, In place of gazing heaven, and striking to the stars!

Stranger, that Woman, clad in sanctity Of gentleness and love, with modesty To guard her vesture like a golden zone, Should rend away her robes, and shameless stand In the world's eye; a wrangler, to disown Her sex, and make it monstrous in an outraged land!

But strangest still, of these, or aught beside Of human crime or folly, is the pride Born of the gentlest gift we reach from Heaven; Where hearts like these, stung by its bitterness, Cease from each other, wild to be forgiven, Yet proud to nurse an unrelenting wretchedness!

Sonnet I

I.

The starry flower, the flower-like stars that fade And brighten with the daylight and the dark,— The bluet in the green I faintly mark, And glimmering crags with laurel overlaid, Even to the Lord of light, the Lamp of shade, Shine one to me,—the least, still glorious made As crowned moon, or heaven's great hierarch. And, so, dim grassy flower, and night-lit spark, Still move me on and upward for the True; Seeking through change, growth, death, in new and old. The full in few, the statelier in the less, With patient pain; always remembering this,— His hand, who touched the sod with showers of gold, Stippled Orion on the midnight blue.

Sonnet II

II.

And so, as this great sphere (now turning slow Up to the light from that abyss of stars, Now wheeling into gloom through sunset bars)— With all its elements of form and flow, And life in life; where crowned, yet blind, must go The sensible king,—is but a Unity Compressed of motes impossible to know; Which worldlike yet in deep analogy, Have distance, march, dimension, and degree; So the round earth—which we the world do call— Is but a grain in that that mightiest swells, Whereof the stars of light are particles, As ultimate atoms of one infinite Ball, On which God moves, and treads beneath his feet the All!

The Question

How shall I array my love? How should I arrange my fair? Leave her standing white and silent In the richness of her hair? Motion silent, beauty bare In the glory of her hair? Or, for place and drapery, Ravage land, and sack the sea?

Or from darkest summer sky, When the white belts, riding high, Cut the clear like ribs of pearl, On the eastern upland's curl, In the time of dusk and dew Tear away a breadth of blue?

Touched from twilight's rosy bars, With each twinkling tuft of stars, And, shaking out the glints of gold, Catch her softly from the cold?— Catch, and lift her to the cloud, Where to crown her, passing proud, Gliding, glistening woods of June, Reach the rain-ring from the moon?

Or—to fold her warmer-wise— Let me try, in garb and guise Gathered from this mortal globe; Roll her beauty in a robe Of the Persian lilach stain, Purple, dim with filigrane; Belted-in with rarer red Than India's leaf ere figurèd, Put a crown upon her head! Then to lead her, high and cold, Where, from a stop of silver rolled A crimson floweth on the floor; Like a river riding o'er

Pearl, and priceless marbles bright,— Onyx, myrrhine, marcasite, And jasper green!—nor these alone, But the famed Phengites stone,— And leading upward to the throne. Prop and pillar, roof and rise, All ashake with drops and dyes, And the diamond's precious eyes; And she, as if a sudden storm Hed fallen upon her face and form; Diamonds like raindrops rare, Pearls like hailstones in her hair; In the lamplight's ruddy stream, Jewels crossed with jewels gleam On jewels, jewel-circled there; While, round her wrists and ankles bare, Gems of jewels glimpse and gaze,— Hyacinth, rose-stone, idocrase.

Or she stealeth, soft arrayed Like a white Hæmonian maid Winding under cypress shade;

Cedar shade, and paths of green, With porch and pillar, white between; Amaranth eyes do mine behold, Hair like the pale marigold: Dreamily she seems to me Hero, or Herodice! With a sidclong motion sweet, Thoro' flowers she draws her feet; This way now the ripples come,— Shower myrtles, myrrh, and gum, With heliochryse and ámomum!

Ah! not so, New England's flower! Separate must her beauty be From stars of old mythology,— Priestesses, or Crysophors, Nor fairy garb, nor kingly dewer, May fit her in her radiant hour; Free and bold her steps must flow, All men see her come and go; At her feet the planet lies, Day and night are in her eyes,

Over her the star-flag strewn: Lo! she standeth there alone, Pride, in her dark glances, king! Love, her cheek rose-colouring; In a garden all her own, Lo! she standeth, crownèd on With rare roses, round her drawn Texture like the webs of dawn On the rose-beds lingering, While my heart to her I bring; Heart and garden all her own— What, in truth, cares such a one, Though my arm could round her throw Gleam of gods, or crowns bestow? Or though the old gods could confer All godlike gifts and grace on her? The young Medusa's locks divine, Pelops' shoulder eburnine, Lips that drew the Ismenean bees, Tears of the Heliades, Dropped into shimmering shells that be About the indraught of the sea.

The river-riches of the sphere, All that the dark sea-bottoms bear, The wide earth's green convexity, The inexhaustible blue sky, Hold not a prize, so proud, so high, That it could grace her, gay or grand, By garden-gale and rose-breath fanned; Or as to-night I saw her stand, Lovely in the meadow-land, With a clover in her hand.

Twilight

<>1. In the darkening silence,— When the hilltops dusk and fail, And the purple damps of evening now No longer edge the vale; When the faint flesh-tinted clouds have parted To the westward, one by one,— In the glimmering silence, I love to steal alone By river and by runside, Through knots of aspens gray, And hearken for the voices Of a music ceased away.

<>2. About the winding water, And among the bulrush-spears,

Like the wind of empty Autumn, comes Their sorrow in my ears; Like the wind of hollow Autumn blowing From swamp and shallow dim, Comes the sorrow of the voices; Whilst along the weedy brim I follow in the evenfall, And darkly reason why Those whispers breathe so mournfully From depths of days gone by.

<>3. Is it that, in the stealing Of the tender, tearful tones, The knowledge stirs, that bowers and homes Are dust and fallen stones, Where once they sang?—that on lips so loving Settled a still gray sleep, With tears, though mindful memory Still brings them from the deep? Is it that Conscience muses, Twas for thee their high hearts heaved?"

Or is it so, that I am not What those best hearts believed?

<>4. O falling stream! O voices! O grief! O gaining night! Ye bring no comfort to the heart: Ye but again unite In a brooding gloom, and a windy wail; And a sorrow, cold like Death, Steals from the river-border, Falls in the dampening breath Of the unavailing night-wind,— Falls with the strength of tears, And an unreal bitterness, On the life of latter years.

<>5. I see the flags of the River, And the moss-green alder bark, While faintly the far-set village lights Flash through the rainy dark;

And the willow drops to the dipping water,— But why, from shelf and shore, Comes the trouble of the voices Of the loved of heretofore? They never knew these shadows, And the river's sighing flow Swept not their ears in those dim days, Nor lulled them long ago.

<>6. Sunk are the ships, or shattered,— Yet, as mid the burying foam, On the wild sea-bar, beat here and there, As the surges go and come, Pieces and parts of a broken vessel; So, to this stranger stream And its still woods, come drifting in, Thought, memory, doubt, and dream, Of the noble hearts that sailed with me: Hero to this desert spot Come their dim ghosts, where they, indeed, Were known and nurtured not.

<>7. 'Tis the heart, the heart, remembers, And with wild and passionate will Peoples the woods and vales, and pours Its cry round stream and hill. I look o'er the hills to the mournful morning, And it whispers still of home,— And, in the darkening of the day, Impels me forth to roam, With a desolate and vague desire, Like the evil spirit's quest; Who walketh through dry places, Seeking still, nor finding rest.

<>8. Yet, in the gathering silence, When the hilltops faint and fail, And the tearful tints of twilight now No longer edge the vale; When the crimson-faded clouds have parted To the westward, one by one,— In the passionate silence,

I love to steal alone By river and by runside, Through knots of aspens gray, And hearken for the voices Of a music ceased away.

Elidore

Her beauty came to his distrustful heart As comes a bud to flower, in bracing air; For its perception had been dulled to sleep, By disappointment, doubt, and worldly wear, The fear of wrong, and coldness everywhere: Yet, while unguessed, an impulse seemed to part From that pale presence; calling him to keep A watch on Beauty's beamings, powers, and tones,— From blossoming dawn, down to the half-filled flower, Or bird, or buried brook: all that Life owns, Or Nature gives, grew holier in that power.

An influence still entreating day by day, Yet still unlike the tricks of female guile, Not forward, but to reach and reconcile Through childlike grace and plain sincerity;

And teaching him, by such innocence of display, That light of outward loveliness to see. Scarce felt at first, with Time's increasing worth The faint eyes deepened, and the lips awoke, Till, from a clouded brow, all beauty broke, And bade him own a wonder of the earth,— A graceful mind, most gracefully inclosed; A woman fair and young, but softly free From the world's wisdom, and hypocrisy; Or restless spite, or curiosity; Gentle and glad, yet armed in constancy, With breathings heavenward, and a faith composed.

Such is the Beauty dowered not to deceive; Such was the Beauty that dispersed his fear, And smiled, and said, "O world-sick heart, believe!" Doubting, he saw all doubts and bodings grim, Like night dissolving, break and disappear, While Joy and Trust relumed his vision dim; Such Joy as clears the wood-lost wanderer's sight, Who, pushing darkly on, with body bowed,

Through trunks and brush discerns a pecring light, And sees it shine, a star of safety soon; Or like a stormy moonrise, when the moon Grows from some blackened ridge of thundercloud, And slow perfects herself in wondering eyes That brighten with her round: so sweet surprise Brightened his look, as that strange beauty beamed To illume a heart, that had its grace, its power, misdeemed.

The Clearing

Here, where the River wheels Through counties called the midland, Of this fair tract the flower and crown, Once stood a wild of woodland: But now no belt of brown, Beech, alder, ash, or oaken, Is left; and Autumn's Lamp reveals All barren, bald, and broken.

A slope of rugged marl, For copse and dreamy dingle, The larches burned, the birches flayed, Or gone for beam and shingle; The beeches in whose shade The hunter shaped his paddle, With scrawly bush and brushwood-snarl, Have vanished, stock and staddle.

Beside the Run whose flow The season touched with flowers, Or softly staunched with fallen leaves,— Or fed with perfumed showers, A shirt with tattered sleeves Slaps in the gust of summer, And, vaguely, soapy breathings blow Across the vagrant roamer.

Here, where the golden grace Of moonlight fell in shatters, By dark, a dingy, flickering line Frets on the tossing waters; For here, where then the pine Tanned with his droppings scanty, This rock, the Poet's resting-place, Is propt, an Irish slanty.

Oh! not upon the edge Of grove, or ranging river, At eve, or in the general day Where'er thy steps endeavour,

Shall thee such rest delay,— O dreamer in the Shadow! By axe and beetle, blast and wedge, Now torn from marge and meadow.

Thou, whom no sorrow sears, Nor sour mischances harden, Wilt seek no more the pitcher-plant To deck thy slender garden, In this thy holy haunt: Gone are the happy bowers! And thou, apart, in other years Must rove for other flowers.

The Spring wind will not come Now like a pleasant rumour, Nor the long hot song of harvest-fly To sting the car of Sumner; And when the woods are dry, Or red with Autumn's dawning, This bay will miss a music from Dim arch, or crimson awning.

Yet when November rains Shall settle on the forest, And wash the colour from the wood, His darlings from the florist, 'Twill seem a glimpse of good; A compensation tender,— Remembering that to this remains No beanty now to render;

And that—for what we love, Though doubt and dread benumb us,— The gracious Past, the yielded boon, Can ne'er be taken from us. Then let us hold what's gone, And hug each greener minute, Though shanties smoke in every cove, And Paddies rule the senate.

Yes, though for belt and bower The hard, dry tangle bristles, And the bloomy hollows swarm and burn With tick-seed, tares, and thistles,

And the River runs forlorn,— We go not unrequited, Whilst memory glasses heaven and flower, Wherein our love delighted,

And may this Picture gay, Deep-rooted in my bosom, The blue above for ever seal, For ever shade the blossom; Unswept by worldly steel, Or Sorrow’s fire and powder, Give lordlier off the limb, and sway The surgy summit prouder!

But if, through bough and butt, Time’s dull steel chops and craunches, And lumber lies for noble stems, And wreck for wreathing branches, And all the glory dims,— May I, for deep-loved Nature, Though brute his being, and base his hut, Replace it with the Creature!

To the River

'Tis nearly night, a healing night, As Carro's words last-spoken, "And will the day be blue and bright? A whole bright day, unbroken?" You ask of me, who walk to learn; Regardless wealth amassing, And take no charge of tide or turn, And scarcely keep, in passing,

A watch on wind and weather-gleam,— Of these things no recorder; Yet o'er the dark I almost seem To see its golden border. Behind the night is hid the day: I cannot find the reason In rule or rhyme; but all things say 'Twill be a day of season.

And Carro, too, will softer smile, And Carro's frown be rarer, But leave your fair a little while,— You'll find her all the fairer,— To walk with me; not by the road, (A little breathing give her,) And we will keep the winding wood Until we strike the River.

And I will tell, where Love, though loath, A fuller harvest heapeth Than yours: yet I have known the growth, And followed where he reapeth; And this, though now to heaven you cast, Appealing, death-defiant, A passion pitiless and vast As love of god or giant!

For one is beat with blasting tears, And burned with raging weather, And reapt in fiery haste, the ears Half-ripe, dead-ripe, or neither:

The other hangs with dim rain prest, All greenly wet, and groweth For ever in the realms of rest, Nor end nor seedtime knoweth.

Yet some, who cannot help to see, Refuse the day, and many, Where faintest strokes of sunlight be, Peep hard for pin and penny, Who sneer at what the meadow spreads, And what the woods environ; And, like the sons of Use, with heads, And hands, and feet of iron,

Would grasp the Titan's scythe to wound; To sweep the hill asunder, And shear the groves at one swing-round, And tread the Muses under! Yet, still best-pleased amid the roar, I find myself a debtor, Love men not lesser than before, And Nature more than better.

There be, with brains no folding shroud Of grief, can wean or widow Of vacant mirth, who bear the cloud, Yet shrink from shade of shadow; Would flit for ever in the shine, Despite of burns and blisters, And add another to the Nine, More foolish than her sisters:

A denary of graceful girls, That carol, dance, and sidle Through chaffering crowds, and giddying whirls Of Life, all loud and idle. But I, who love the graver Muse, And Minna more than Brenda, Walk not with these, nor find my views Writ down in their credenda.

Why, for some peep of meaning clear, Should we ourselves deliver Up to the stream, which even here Roars past us like a River?

But bend, and let the hurly pass,— Pedant and fop, chance-hitters! Whilst, in the fields of faded grass, The cricket ticks and twitters;—

With those that loose the languid page, Nor let the life o'erflow it, But pick and copy, sap and sage: Part wit, and parcel poet, They follow fast some empirie, Nor heed for watch or warden; But go in crowds, and settle thick Like crows in Nature's garden.