TO A FRIEND. WHO prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind?Homer He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men, Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,1 And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. pets Much he, wnose friendship I not long since won, That halting slave, who in Nicopolis Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son Cleared Rome of what most shamed him. But be his Sophed My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul, Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole; SHAKSPEARE. OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free. Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self-secure, Didst tread on earth unguessed at. Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS. “O MONSTROUS, dead, unprofitable world, To-day a hero's banner is unfurled; Hast thou no lip for welcome?" So I said. Man after man, the world smiled and passed by; As though one spake of life unto the dead, Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full The seeds of godlike power are in us still ; WRITTEN IN BUTLER'S SERMONS. AFFECTIONS, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, Vain labor! Deep and broad, where none may see, And rays her powers, like sister-islands seen Or clustered peaks with plunging gulfs between, Spanned by aërial arches all of gold, TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. ON HEARING HIM MISPRAISED. BECAUSE thou hast believed, the wheels of life Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground, Of all its chafing torrents after thaw, Urged; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand, Hast labored, but with purpose; hast become Of vehement actions without scope or term, IN HARMONY WITH NATURE. TO A PREACHER. "IN harmony with Nature?" Restless fool, To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool! Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more, And in that more lie all his hopes of good. Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood; Nature is fickle, man hath need of rest; Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends; TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. DN SEEING, IN THE COUNTRY, HIS PICTURE OF BOTTLE." "THE ARTIST, whose hand, with horror winged, hath torn Valleys and men to middle fortune born, Not in nocent, indeed, yet not forlorn, — Say, what shall calm us when such guests intrude Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian's horn, Cold-bubbling springs, or caves? Not so! The soul Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says, "Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man May be by man effaced; man can control Know thou the worst! So much, not more, he can." TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND, 1848. GOD knows it, I am with you. If to prize The barren optimistic sophistries Of comfortable moles, whom what they do If sadness at the long heart-wasting show The armies of the homeless and unfed, - |