Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies,

Here in pine houses built of new-fallen trees,

30

Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.

Traveller, to thee, perchance, a tedious road,

Or, it may be, a picture; to these men, The landscape is an armory of powers, Which, one by one, they know to draw and use.

They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work;

They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,

And, like the chemist 'mid his loaded jars, Draw from each stratum its adapted use To drug their crops or weapon their arts withal.

40

The polite found me impolite; the great
Would mortify me, but in vain; for still
I am a willow of the wilderness,
Loving the wind that bent me.
All my

hurts

70

As, when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye,

The river, hill, stems, foliage are obscure, Yet envies none, none are unenviable."

"Poems," 1847.

ÉTIENNE DE LA BOÉCE 1

I serve you not, if you I follow,
Shadowlike, o'er hill and hollow;
And bend my fancy to your leading,
All too nimble for my treading.
When the pilgrimage is done,
And we've the landscape overrun,
I am bitter, vacant, thwarted,
And your heart is unsupported.
Vainly valiant, you have missed

The manhood that should yours resist,— 10
Its complement, but if I could,
In severe or cordial mood,
Lead you rightly to my altar,
Where the wisest muses falter,

And worship that world-warning spark
Which dazzles me in midnight dark,
Equalizing small and large,

While the soul it doth surcharge,
Till the poor is wealthy grown,
And the hermit never alone,-

The traveller and the road seem one
With the errand to be done,-
That were a man's and lover's part,
That were Freedom's whitest chart.

1833.

20

"Poems," 1847.

BRAHMA 2

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
1857.

DAYS

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. To each they offer gifts after his will, Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.

I, in my pleached garden, watched the

pomp,

Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late, 10
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
1851.

Atlantic Monthly, Nov., 1857.

THE ROMANY GIRL

The sun goes down, and with him takes
The coarseness of my poor attire;
The fair moon mounts, and aye the flame
Of Gypsy beauty blazes higher.

Pale Northern girls! you scorn our race;
You captives of your air-tight halls,
Wear out in-doors your sickly days,
But leave us the horizon walls.

And if I take you, dames, to task,
And say it frankly without guile,
Then you are Gypsies in a mask,
And I the lady all the while.

If on the heath, below the moon,
I court and play with paler blood,
Me false to mine dare whisper none,-
One sallow horseman knows me good.

10

Behold the Sea, The opaline, the plentiful and strong, Yet beautiful as is the rose in June, Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July; 20 Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds, Purger of earth, and medicine of men; Creating a sweet climate by my breath, Washing out harms and griefs from memory,

And, in my mathematic ebb and flow, Giving a hint of that which changes not. Rich are the sea-gods-who gives gifts but they?

They grope the sea for pearls, but more than pearls:

They pluck Force thence, and give it to the wise.

For every wave is wealth to Dædalus, 30 Wealth to the cunning artist who can work

This matchless strength. Where shall he find, O waves!

A load your Atlas shoulders cannot lift?

1 This poem, as E. W. Emerson records, is a striking illustration of Emerson's oneness in method and point of view in his writing of prose and verse. The day after a two-weeks' visit to Cape Ann in 1857 he entered in his journal a prose passage, which with almost no changes he recast into this blank verse. The original entry in the Journal occurs for July 3, 1857. A similar parallel passage is supplied for "Two Rivers," in E. W. Emerson's "Emerson in Concord," pp. 232, 3.

Oblivion here thy wisdom is,
Thy thrift, the sleep of cares;
For a proud idleness like this
Crowns all thy mean affairs.
1857.

Atlantic Monthly, Oct., 1858.

WORSHIP

This is he, who, felled by foes,

Sprung harmless up, refreshed by blows:
He to captivity was sold,

But him no prison-bars would hold:
Though they sealed him in a rock,
Mountain chains he can unlock:
Thrown to lions for their meat,
The crouching lion kissed his feet;
Bound to the stake, no flames appalled,
But arched o'er him an honoring vault. 10
This is he men miscall Fate,

Threading dark ways, arriving late,
But ever coming in time to crown
The truth, and hurl wrong-doers down.
He is the oldest, and best known,

More near than aught thou call'st thy

Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song,

Fire their fiercer flaming felt,

O, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong!

40

And the meaning was more white Than July's meridian light.

10

See thou bring not to field or stone
The fancies found in books;
Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own,
To brave the landscape's looks.

Sunshine cannot bleach the snow,
Nor time unmake what poets know.
Have you eyes to find the five
Which five hundred did survive?

Atlantic Monthly, Jan., 1861.

80

With glad remembrance of my debt,
I homeward turn; farewell, my pet!
When here again thy pilgrim comes,
He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs.
Doubt not, so long as earth has bread,
Thou first and foremost shalt be fed;
The Providence that is most large-
Takes hearts like thine in special charge,
Helps who for their own need are strong,
And the sky doats on cheerful song.
Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant
O'er all that mass and minster vaunt; 90
For men mis-hear thy call in Spring,
As 'twould accost some frivolous wing,
Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be!
And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee!

I think old Cæsar must have heard
In northern Gaul my dauntless bird,
And, echoed in some frosty wold,
Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold.
And I will write our annals new,
And thank thee for a better clew,
I, who dreamed not when I came here
To find the antidote of fear,
Now hear thee say in Roman key,
Paan! Veni, vidi, vici.

1862.

100

Atlantic Monthly, May, 1862,