SHE CAME AND WENT. As a twig trembles, which a bird As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps An angel stood and met my gaze, O, when the room grows slowly dim, THE CHANGELING. I HAD a little daughter, I know not how others saw her, And the light of the heaven she came from And as many changes took, As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples To what can I liken her smiling Sending sun through her veins to me! She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth, And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari But they left in her stead a changeling, That seems like her bud in full blossom, As weak, yet as trustful also; Still worked for the love of me; Earth whirls, and all but to prosper This child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bliss it upon my breast; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she's gone to Transfigures its golden hair. THE PIONEER. WHAT man would live coffined with brick and stone, Imprisoned from the influences of air, And cramped with selfish land-marks everywhere, When all before him stretches, furrowless and lone, The unmapped prairie none can fence or own? What man would read and read the selfsame faces, And, like the marbles which the windmill grinds, Rub smooth forever with the same smooth minds, This year retracing last year's, every year's, dull traces, When there are woods and un-man-stifled places? What man o'er one old thought would pore and pore, Shut like a book between its covers thin For every fool to leave his dog's-ears in, When solitude is his, and God for evermore, Just for the opening of a paltry door? What man would watch life's oozy element To where the undethroned forest's royal tent What man with men would push and altercate, Piecing out crooked means for crooked ends, When he can have the skies and woods for friends, Snatch back the rudder of his undismantled fate, And in himself be ruler, church, and state? Cast leaves and feathers rot in last year's nest, The winged brood, flown thence, new dwellings plan; The serf of his own Past is not a man ; To change and change is life, to move and never rest; Not what we are, but what we hope, is best. The wild, free woods make no man halt or blind; Cities rob men of eyes and hands and feet, Patching one whole of many incomplete; The general preys upon the individual mind, And each alone is helpless as the wind. Each man is some man's servant; every soul Yet not with mutual help; each man is his own goal, And the whole earth must stop to pay his toll. Here, life the undiminished man demands; New faculties stretch out to meet new wants; What Nature asks, that Nature also grants; Here man is lord, not drudge, of eyes and feet and hands, And to his life is knit with hourly bands. |