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Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue,

And of so fierce a flight,
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung,

Filling with light

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore

Them earthward till they lit ;
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower,

The fruitful wit

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew

Where'er they fell, behold,
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew

A flower all gold,

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling

The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately bloomst he breathing spring

Of Hope and Youth.

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams,

Though one did fling the fire. Heaven flow'd upon the soul in

many Of high desire.


Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world

Like one great garden show'd, And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd,

Rare sunrise flow'd.

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise

Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burning eyes

Melted like snow.

There was no blood upon her maiden robes

Sunn'd by those orient skies ;
But round about the circles of the globes

Of her keen eyes

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame

WISDOM, a name to shake
All evil dreams of power—a sacred name.

And when she spake,

Her words did gather thunder as they ran,

And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,

Making earth wonder,

So was their meaning to her words. No sword

Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word

She shook the world.

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Vex not thou the poet's mind

With thy shallow wit:
Vex not thou the poet's mind ;

For thou can’st not fathom it.
Clear and bright it should be ever,
Flowing like a crystal river ;
Bright as light, and clear as wind.


Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear ;

All the place is holy ground; Hollow smile and frozen sneer

Come not here.

you stand

Holy water will I pour

Into every spicy flower
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around.
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.

In your eye there is death,
There is frost in


breath Which would blight the plants. Where

you cannot hear From the groves within

The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, It would fall to the ground if you came in. In the middle leaps a fountain

Like sheet lightning,

Ever brightening
With a low melodious thunder ;
All day and all night it is ever drawn

From the brain of the purple mountain

Which stands in the distance yonder : It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love ;

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