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RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
To her old leaves new myriads?
These temples grew as grows the grass;
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs,
And through the priest the mind inspires.
The word unto the prophet spoken
THE word of the Lord by night
To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat by the seaside,
And filled their hearts with flame.
God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more;
Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.
Think ye I made this ball
My angel, his name is Freedom,-
Lo! I uncover the land,
Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best;
I show Columbia, of the rocks Which dip their foot in the seas, And soar to the air-borne flocks
Of clouds, and the boreal fleece.,
I will divide my goods;
Call in the wretch and the slave: None shall rule but the humble,
And none but Toil shall have.
I will have never a noble,
No lineage counted great; Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a state.
Go, cut down trees in the forest, And trim the straightest boughs; Cut down trees in the forest,
And build me a wooden house.
Call the people together,
The young men and the sires, The digger in the harvest-field, Hireling, and him that hires;
And here in a pine state-house They shall choose men to rule In every needful faculty,
In church and state and school.
Lo, now! if these poor men
Can govern the land and sea, And make just laws below the sun, As planets faithful be.
And ye shall succor men;
How it swells! How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
What a world of solemn thought their
For every sound that floats
And the people,-ah, the people, —
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
On the human heart a stone,
And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells
With the pean of the bells!
To the throbbing of the bells, -
As he knells, knells, knells,
To the rolling of the bells,
To the tolling of the bells,
BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geraniumflower,
Beginning to die, too, in the glass.
The shutters are shut, no light may pass | I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;
Save two long rays through the hinge's
And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold. So, hush,
I will give you this leaf to keep,
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep; You will wake, and remember, and understand.
Sixteen years old when she died!
It was not her time to love: beside,
And now was quiet, now astir, —
For thence-a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail :
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
And I shall thereupon
A brute I might have been, but would Take rest, ere I be gone
not sink i' the scale.
Not once beat, "Praise be Thine!
I see the whole design,
I, who saw Power, shall see Love perfect
Perfect I call Thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man!
Let us cry, "All good things
Therefore I summon age
Life's struggle having so far reached its
Thence shall I pass, approved
What is he but a brute
Fearless and unperplexed,
Whose flesh hath soul to suit,
To man, propose this test, -
Youth ended, I shall try
How far can that project thy soul on its My gain or loss thereby;
For pleasant is this flesh;
Our soul, in its rose-mesh
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for
A man, for aye removed
Would we some prize might hold
To match those manifold
Yet gifts should prove their use:
I own the Past profuse
Of power each side, perfection every turn:
Once more on my adventure brave and
Let us not always say,
Spite of this flesh to-day
I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"
As the bird wings and sings,
Be the fire ashes, what survives is gold:
Give life its praise or blame:
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.
For note, when evening shuts,
So, still within this life,
Though lifted o'er its strife,
Maker, remake, complete, I trust what Let me discern, compare, pronounce at
thou shalt do!"
The deed off, calls the glory from the gray :
Shoots, "Add this to the rest,
Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."
"This rage was right i' the main,
The Future I may face now I have proved
For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved
Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as To act to-morrow what he learns to-day :
we did best!
Here, work enough to watch
The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.
As it was better, youth
Should strive, through acts uncouth,